Breaking the Habit
by xHitanTenshi
Summary: They say that denial is the first stage of grief, the first step toward healing from a deep loss. However, when Edward clings to his denial, conceals the loss of his brother, and craves any means to numb himself to reality, healing him will be an even more daunting challenge. Parental Roy & Riza. OCs. M for drug & alcohol use, self harm, and sexual content. (finishing on Ao3)
1. CATALYST

[A/N]: As fond as I am of the original version of this story, looking back on it, I can't help but feel that I can tell it better now: use virtually the same premise, but capture more of what's going on with more characters and even incorporate events into the mangaverse timeline. After having felt this way for long enough, I've given in (especially since inspiration has been lagging in general in my fic-writing). Doyle will make more frequent appearances rather than popping up in a mere two chapters, and there will be a couple of other OCs with whom Ed interacts during (namely, his assigned therapist, Fiona Clellan, and her younger sister, Briana). THINGS WILL BE DARKER. There may even be different outcomes in this retelling, who knows? Without further ado, I hope you enjoy.

+.+.+.+.+.+.+.+.+

**CATALYST**

It's been a normal enough morning. The sun has risen, the laws of physics have held — there are even a handful of pigeons loitering on the outside windowsill. All seems more or less right with the world, as much as can it can be when you've committed the ultimate alchemical taboo and pretty much screwed up life for your only sibling.

Edward Elric rolls onto his stomach, face buried in pillow, and mumbles a _"Mornin'"_ to Alphonse, who, as usual, had taken a seat beside his bed, ready to calm him from a nightmare or answer his sleep talking. Right now, however, Al says nothing. And Ed thinks nothing of it at first, but… this is a sort of ritual for them — why would he not answer? Shifting position again, Edward looks at the suit of armor with raised brow. "I said, _'Good morning.'_"

No response.

Increasingly perplexed, Ed kicks off the sheets and swings his mismatched legs over the bedside, letting the automail heel clink against the sheet of steel masquerading as Alphonse's thigh. "What, did I do somethin' to piss you off? If so, m'sorry."

Silence.

"C'mon, Al. This silent treatment thing's gettin' old real fast." He tries a few more times, and each insistence marks a progression from a tone of amusement to one of concern, even fear. And, as is typical of Edward Elric, anger surges up to hide that fear. Sliding down from the bed, Ed climbs — scrambles, really — into Alphonse's cross-legged lap and grabs him by the neck guard that encircles his helmet. "Dammit, Alphonse! This isn't funny anymore! **Answer me**!"

But no amount of yelling or shaking yields any results. Ed's brain is going a million miles an hour. What's going on? Why isn't Al answering him? What's gone wrong!? Having worked himself into a panic, Edward clings to the armor, straining his ears for sounds that he fears will never come. Al's voice, his laugh, his chiding, his encouragement, his comforting… The longer Ed waits for them, the further they slip away from his memory. What does Al's voice sound like again? It's soothing and warm, despite this cold shell in which Ed had imprisoned it. It's strong, but gentle, the kind of voice that belongs to a person who will defend you with their life and call you out on your issues and stick with you until you right those wrongs. So why isn't Al sticking with him now? Where is he? Where's he gone?

_Gone_… The word doesn't seem to sink in. Ed can't explain it, and he refuses to accept it, but the loneliness seeps into his skin, turning him cold as death, as the empty suit of armor pressed against his cheek. Al… Al is…

+.+.+.+.+.+.+.+.+


	2. TEMPTATION

**TEMPTATION**

He hasn't bothered to measure the hours, but this is the second time the sun has dipped behind the skyline of Central. Pacing occupies most of his time, broken by the occasional filling of a glass of water in order to refuel his agitation or setting down a book he'd tried to read only to stare at the blank opening page. But no matter how he tries to distract himself, his gaze is drawn back to his bedside, to the emptiness staring at him out of Alphonse's eyeholes. It's been two days, and nothing. Not a single indication that the suit of armor will ever move again. In the last few hours, Edward has been tempted to open up the chestplate and examine the blood seal, but fear holds him back. As long as he doesn't look, doesn't confirm the worst, he can still hope. He can tell himself that Al will wake up any minute now. Ed clings to that idea, wraps himself in it like a thick blanket. Al is fine. Everything is going to be fine.

It's all well and good to tell himself that, but remaining in this room for another minute is going to drive him insane. If it's been two days since _that morning_, then it's been two nights that Ed has gone without a wink of sleep. But he can't rest, not here, not when Alphonse hadn't slept for three years straight only to—

_No._

_Stop. Stop right there._

_Alphonse is __**fine**__. He's just angry with you. He's playin' d— __**still**__ as a mean prank_

_Everything will be fine._

Shaking himself out of unwanted thoughts, Edward takes a final turn about the room, grabbing his jacket and the necessities like his pocket watch and some cash. Even though he hasn't had anything close to an appetite for the past two days, maybe getting away from here will fix that. And so, not knowing or really caring where he's headed, Ed leaves the hotel.

The streets are especially winding today, but perhaps that's due to Ed's lightheadedness. He can't help but feel as if the alleyways that he stumbles down are _trying_ to get him lost, and that suits him just fine. As he wanders deeper into unfamiliar sectors of the city and the concentration of streetlamps gets sparser and sparser, black laps at his vision, whether due to lack of actual light, exhaustion, or because an increasing part of Ed's weary heart (the part that knows he's lying to himself by believing Al will wake up) _wants_ the darkness to swallow him.

It's only after he's reached that point that it catches his eye. A little joint, not ostentatious by any means, but it draws him nonetheless. Maybe it's the name of the place that strikes a chord with him: The Butcher, drawn in large red letters about a foot above the single door. As Ed approaches it, a plaque on said door comes into focus.

_Out to kill some time or cut off the things in life weighing you down? Look no further. We've got the distractions you need._

Distraction… That _is_ what he needs. He needs to forget about everything for a little while, about Alphonse. _What can it hurt to try?_ he tells himself. Of course, that's what he'd thought about committing the taboo, and look where that had led. But reasoning it out only leads his thoughts back to Al, only emphasizes to him his longing to numb himself.

So, his decision made, Edward grasps the knob, twists it, and pushes into the unknown depths.

+.+.+

Night's been dry as low tide, but, in this business, the surge inevitably returns. (Damn, that had actually been pretty clever; maybe he should write it down.) Doyle Boucher balances a cigarette between thin lips as he lays stretched on his favorite couch — it's the only one long enough to accommodate his lanky limbs. The girls are chatting at the bar while the keep wipes the counter down for the fifth time, and though Doyle does appreciate time to repose, he'd much rather have customers.

Speak of the devil: is that the door? Doyle sits up, an eager grin stretched across his face, but surprise disarms him. It's… just a kid. Early teens, short, blond hair — seems to have a thing for black leather, from what he's wearing. What's a mere sprout doing in a place like this? Then again, on a night this slow, Doyle will take all he can get in the way of business. Well, here goes.

"Hey there." Sliding one hand into a pants' pocket, he extends the other in greeting to the boy, for all the good it does when the kid doesn't offer his own hand to shake. Okay, strategy recalculation. "Name's Boucheh', I own this establishment. What can I do you for, little masteh'?"

The child exhibits a sort of twitch, as if being addressed in such a manner offends him (Doyle makes note; it won't do to insult a customer.), but the harshness quickly fades from the young expression. Something's eating this kid; that's for sure.

"Lookin' for anythin' in particular?" he rephrases, coming alongside the kid and subconsciously guarding the exit. The boy simply shrugs.

"A distraction." Damn, even the sprout's voice sounds beaten-down and dry, like the kid's had all the life sucked out of him. If Doyle were the pitying type, he might be moved. "That's what the sign outside said."

"Right you are, young masteh'," and the man gives a little bow for dramatic flair. Good, it would seem _"young"_ doesn't aggravate the boy the way _"little"_ does. "As long as you can pay, you're welcome to any o'my bar's _considerable_ services." Because though the place may not look like it contains anything considerable, the presentation is — as appearances often are — deceiving.

"I can pay," the kid assures Doyle, pulling out a roll of bills in evidence. Okay… wait, holy shit! Are those the kinds of numbers he _thinks_ he's seeing? The man's heart might just stutter a little at seeing that kind of scratch. This changes things considerably. He's _got_ to have this boy's business!

"Well, all right!" With a hearty laugh, Doyle claps the youth on the back as forcefully as he dares — the kid looks like a simple breeze could knock him over right now. "I like a young man who isn't afraid to put his money where his mouth is. Shows spirit, determination!" Over the course of such flattery, his arm winds around the boy's shoulders. There is no way in hell that he's letting this golden goose out of here without getting him to lay a few eggs. "If you don't have any ideas, I can make some suggestions."

After a moment's thought, the boy nods in the bar's direction. "I've never tried alcohol before."

_Kid, I'd be pretty damn surprised if you had tried __**anything**__ we do here before._ But, all's well that pays well. (Ooh, he should write that one down, too). "Then go for it! What's life without its share o'firsts, am I right, or _am I right_?"

The girls at the bar pass whispers and giggles as Doyle steers the boy in their direction, but they make welcome room for the two. "Since this is your first drink, we'll start you off with a regular beer, I think. Like with many good things, it's all about pacin' yourself. Go too fast, and you crash." For all this advice, Doyle is already plotting, trying to think how best he can not only get this kid to pay well today, but get him to be a recurring visitor. That's where real money is made. Well, the first thing to do is to get him talking. Talking will make the boy want to try a second drink, maybe a third, and then he'll be much more… persuadable. Maybe Doyle can even get him to try the junk he has caseloads of in back. Some proprietors would be content with getting a solitary customer drunk out cold and then snatching all he has, but not Doyle. He may be a pimp and a dealer, but never a thief.

"So, young masteh', you got a name?" asks the man, sliding the glass the keep sets on the counter an inch or so closer to his prospective prey. "Any name'll do, if you've got qualms about sharin' your real one. I'm hardly one to judge."

"…Ed."

"Ed~ I like it. Easy to remember."

"I guess…"

"So, Ed, why don't you tell me what brings you to my fine establishment? They say talkin' about this sorta thing helps, y'know?"

"So people keep telling me."

Damn, this is harder than he'd thought it'd be. "Ah, that's the rub, kid. Some things you just don't wanna bring up, I understand."

"Do you?" There might be a hint of a sarcastic laugh in the boy's voice as he finally lifts the glass to his lips. One sip later, the sprout's got a predictably scrunched expression, but he must not wholly dislike it, because he takes a second, larger swig before setting the glass down.

"That's the way," Doyle encourages. "But, let's back things up; what brings you to Central, Ed?"

"…My reassessment."

"Oh? A job, then?"

"Yeah. I have to renew my license every year, or they'll revoke it."

"Sounds like important stuff."

"It is. I need it. With their resources, I thought I might be able to—" But he stops there, quite abruptly, as if remembering something painful. Next thing Doyle knows, the kid's drained his glass and asked for a second one.

_That's_ what he's looking for. Now he knows where to press.

"It's gotta be some job to pay you so well," he notes in casual tones, accepting a glass of wine from the keep.

"Yeah… for all the good it's done me."

"Oh? How so?"

"Well, there are plenty of people who don't like the military."

Doyle nearly sprays his drink. Hold up — this kid, this _beansprout_, is in the military!? That takes some major brain-wracking to make sense of. But, finally, a scrap of information comes to him. "You wouldn't happen to be from the eastern area, would you, Ed?"

"…Yeah, why?"

That settles it. With his ear so low to the ground, Doyle had heard rumors of a military star in the east — the youngest State Alchemist ever to be appointed: Edward Elric. To think such a person would stumble into his bar…

"No reason." Keeping his eye on the level of Edward's drink, Doyle thumbs his chin. "Military, huh? That can't be easy for a kid."

"It isn't. But it was the best option I had, considering…" There he goes again, fading mid-sentence in favor of downing his beer.

"Hey now, young masteh'. You're really knockin' 'em back. You don't wanna get wasted, do ya?"

Ed turns to face Doyle properly for the first time. For someone so young, there is a hardness, a weariness, in his eyes, which are a captivating color of gold, however dulled they may seem at present. "Would that be so wrong?" he asks, and there's a hitch in his voice. "People get drunk when they want to forget stuff for a while, right?"

Feigning a sympathetic expression, Doyle nods and pats the boy on the shoulder. "No, that ain't so wrong. Hell, helpin' people forget their troubles is what this bar is all about." With a wink, he adds, "Still, don't down 'em too fast, or I'll have to explain to a hospital why you're so slammed."

The small blond acknowledges this wisdom and pushes his third drink away after the first sip so as to lessen the temptation.

"So, when is this assessment o'yours?"

Edward chews on his lip. The kid's eyes become glazed, as if he's genuinely having trouble remembering (not surprising, considering his level of intoxication). "…Tomorrow."

"Damn. You're a gusty one." Doyle doesn't hold back a light laugh. What a fool this boy is; at the rate he's drinking, he'll be lucky if he can _walk_ tomorrow, let alone take a test. But he claps the kid on the back in the spirit of encouraging his spending. Ed doesn't seem to think it funny; whatever's eating at him must really be a piece of work. "I like you, young masteh'," Doyle flatters. "You're welcome to my bar anytime."

That coaxes the tiniest of smiles from the kid, but it soon disappears as he takes another sip from his beer. Doyle can guess that he needs to give the youth a break from the talking in order to coax more out of him in the long run, so the next quarter-of-an-hour or so passes in relative silence, aside from the girls' background chatter. Edward has just ordered his fourth drink when Doyle nudges his way back into conversation:

"Hey, now, kid. You're pretty drunk already. A fourth one will put you out for the night. Why don't I have someone walk you home instead?"

Ed rims his empty glass with a finger, his features unfocused. The booze has got to be getting to him, considering how tiny he is. It's only because he's been sitting down this whole time that he hasn't felt the full effect. As Doyle suspects, however, the kid eventually shakes his head (an action that sets him swaying on his stool and forces the proprietor to steady him). Only then does Doyle give an approving nod to the keep to give the boy his requested drink. "So," delves the man, "You don't wanna go home?"

"No… home… burnt it." And, as he works through his fourth beer, Edward goes into a great deal — practically throws his life story at Doyle — all while fighting a losing battle against alcohol's lull. It's just as well; he won't remember telling the man any of it when he comes out of this daze. Though it's a lot to swallow, the dealer logs every scrap of it away — any piece of information may be of use to him in his dealings, especially if Edward will be returning to his establishment in future. So, the kid's brother had just up and left him a few days ago, after travelling for years together? That's cold, even by Doyle's standards. No wonder the boy doesn't want to return to a lonely hotel room where only a reminder of his sibling's absence is waiting for him.

"I understand," he condoles, rubbing circles on Edward's back. "You've seen a lot o'shit for a kid your age, Ed. To be honest, I'm impressed that you held off this long before givin' the bottle a try." At this point, he doesn't even know if the boy is listening to him. But with 56 or so grams of alcohol in his system, there's no way he's making it anywhere in the near future. "Tell you what: you can have a couch for the night, free of charge. You look like you need a good lie-down."

Edward nods and — the little fool — tries to stand up. At least Doyle is right there to catch him when the kid's legs refuse to hold him. "Easy, easy," he croons, managing the boy's weight without difficulty and practically carrying him to the nearest couch. Ed's eyelids are drooping by the time they get there, and Doyle tosses out a call for a blanket, which one of the bargirls provides. Soon, the kid is situated comfortably on the seat cushions, head elevated by a pillow. Doyle takes the precaution of setting him on his side and leaving a waste bin nearly, should the boy feel an urge to vomit upon waking. One thing's for sure, the proprietor doesn't envy the headache little Edward Elric will have in the morning.


	3. ASSESSMENT

**ASSESSMENT**

"Hey, I got bad news."

"Oh? Lately it seems like that's all you bring me."

"Stow it, y'old hag. Do you want to hear the dirt, or not?"

A sigh passes her full red lips. "I suppose I might as well. Regale me."

"Well, I was keeping an eye on the Fullmetal kid, like you told me to, but he's been acting strangely for the past few days."

"…Go on."

The lithe figure stiffens, as if aggravated by being ordered about so directly, but continues. "About three days back, he stopped doing much of anything. He was just pacing his room for days, like he was waiting for something. And that armor brother of his sat totally still all the while. When the brat finally left, I snuck into the room disguised as him so that the little brother wouldn't freak, but no matter what I did — even clean kicked his helmet off — I got no response. It's like he's _dead_ or something."

Vermillion eyes narrow, contemplating. This could be a serious problem. They'd been betting on those Elric boys to stay alive. If the younger brother has indeed perished, this sets them back one sacrificial candidate. Steps must be taken.

"I believe there's a sort of rune inside the armor boy," she says, her words as smooth as her alabaster skin. "Was it damaged in any way?"

"Not from what I could tell."

"I see…" How curious they are, the pair of them: his harsh impulsivity in contrast to her lulling tact. And yet, though physically he is the stronger, there is no questioning of rank. She is the elder sibling, after all. Experience trumps everything, does it not? "Our best course of action is to bring the armor boy to Father. He can best determine the likelihood of reviving him."

"What about the Fullmetal brat? It's not like we can leave a note: _'Hey, sorry about this, but we're nabbing your brother to check if he's dead or not.'_"

She chuckles. "Leave no traces of disturbance. I want to see what his reaction will be, what he'll do when he finds his brother simply _gone_."

That gets a mischievous chuckle from her companion. "Sounds like my kind of entertainment. Leave everything to me."

Her smile is forbearing, but cold. "Just don't muck it up this time."

+.+.+

The first thing Edward senses is a stabbing pain, like someone had thought it would be funny to stick a dozen knives into his skull while he slept. Light itself feels tantamount to a fire, burning his brain and eyes, even while his lids are shut tightly. Pressing his palms to his brow in an attempt to shut out the agony of illuminated surroundings, the young blond groans of discomfort. Or, at least, he would, save for the fact that his throat is drier than the Eastern Desert and will not suffer to make any proper sound.

"Rise 'n' shine, young masteh'."

Damn everything to hell; does Boucher have to be so _loud_? (That is Boucher, right? Ed doesn't dare open his eyes right now to confirm, and the man's voice is distinctive enough to match with his patchwork memories of the previous night.)

"Hungoveh', are ya? _Heh_, them's the breaks, kid. You drink as much as you did last night — for your first time drinkin', too — and you get a headache as what makes ya wish you were dead." A ripple of shifting weight across the surface upon which Ed lies tells him that the proprietor has taken a seat by his head. "C'mon, Ed. I know it's hell, but just lyin' there won't do ya any good, trust me. Let's get you sat up. I brought you some wateh'; figured you'd be parched by now."

With enough coaxing, Edward reaches an upright position, though he's largely just leaning into Boucher's shoulder because his head feels heavy enough to fall clean off right now. Rather than trust the glass of water to Ed's shaky hands, the proprietor carefully brings the glass to the boy's lips and holds it there for him while he drains it.

"There we are. Feel betteh'?"

Ed coughs. He's studied the human body enough to know that, when dehydrated as he is now, drinking water never brings instant relief. With a voice so rough, one would think his chords were made of sandpaper, he asks for more water. Boucher obliges on the condition that Ed can hold himself up on his own, which — somehow — the boy manages.

Three full glasses of water later, Edward has regained something of his voice. His head still feels liable to split open at any moment, but at least his throat isn't screaming at him anymore. He hears the clatter of a plate and smells bread, cheese, and meat — a sandwich?

"How's your head doin'?" asks Boucher, returned to his side.

"…Like shit."

The man laughs lightly — dammit, can't he refrain from being so rowdy right by Ed's sensitive ears? "How's that test of yours lookin'? You still gonna give it a shot?"

"Have to," Ed replies before even contemplating the answer. But, once he really mulls it over, the thought comes to him: _does_ he have to? His goals seem so far away, placed forever out of reach by Al's d— by _recent setbacks_. Everything had been for Al's sake, to make right the horrible wrong Ed had done him, but now… is there even a point to going through with the reassessment? What does he need the military for anymore? In the end, Edward concludes that he shouldn't come to a final decision while so out of sorts. This headache can't possibly last through the whole day, right?

"Well, if you're hell-bent," Boucher sighs, "I have something that can take the edge off that hangoveh'."

Though still protecting his eyes from the light with closed eyelids and shading hands, the small blond turns his face in the direction of the man's voice. "Like… pain relief?"

"Yeah, exactly." There's something in the proprietor's tone that, were Ed's senses less addled by pain, might be considered suspicious. "You want some?"

Relief is priority; he doesn't even have to think this over. "Mm, please."

"And polite, too." Boucher snorts, though the statement itself is clearly a compliment. He gets up again, with the advice not to touch the sandwich just yet, for the sake of Ed's stomach, and then he must disappear somewhere further back into the bar, because his footsteps recede from the boy's detection. Of course, that means Ed is left alone with naught but his thoughts. Perhaps this is another effect of his hangover, but he feels… down. It's difficult to determine because he hasn't been feeling his best for days, but, because he hasn't given up hope on Alphonse's stirring, he hasn't had to face certain emotions yet. No, this _"down"_ feeling is more general, like the way he feels when he and Al have been on the trail of a potential Philosopher's Stone for weeks only to meet with disappointment. Like the way he feels when his guilt especially weighs on him and pulls him into dark corners of his mind, when the whispers in those corners tell him he deserves nothing good because of what he's done, that he only deserves pain and suffering as penance for his sins.

Like the way he feels when he listens to those voices and inflicts their justice on himself with a pocketknife.

Edward's right hand instinctively moves to his left forearm, as if fearing someone will be able to look through his sleeve and see the web of scars running from wrist to elbow. It had been easy enough to hide them, over the years. With the life he and Alphonse had led, scars had been a weekly occurrence. What's one or two extra slipped in here and there? Al had never known — he _couldn't_ have known, or else he'd have stopped at nothing to purge the habit from his elder brother. Al wouldn't have borne it if he'd known Ed had been cutting out of guilt, out of an obligation to feel the pain he had denied his younger sibling by robbing him of his human body. And now… does he not deserve even greater punishments, for failing so completely?

"Alllllll righty," Boucher trills, startling Ed from his reverie, "You just hand me your arm, and I'll give you the, uh, pain relieveh'."

"…My arm? What for?"

"Like I said: so I can give you the stuff."

"You mean… like a shot?"

"Indeed I do—"

"Idon'tlikeneedles." The words tumble out practically on top of each other, and everything about Ed's body language must scream self-protection, because he curls inward and scoots himself into a reassuring corner of the couch. He knows it's a childish reaction, but he can't help it. He'd never cared for the invasiveness of shots even as a kid (courtesy of having a pair of doctors as neighbors), and having undergone extensive surgery for automail installation had certainly done nothing to make him more fond of the little pointy devils.

Boucher, though, simply chuckles. "Who _does_? C'mon, Ed, it's an easy decision: would you rather deal with that headache, or a little pin-prick?"

Regrettably, the man has a point. With great reluctance, Ed surrenders his left arm. "Atta'boy," encourages Boucher. Before taking Ed's arm, however, he adds, "Now, this stuff can turn your stomach inside-out, so here's this, if you feel like pukin'." Something nudges into the small blond's legs; grabbing it and giving an experimental squint reveals it to be a small waste bin. Ed mutters thanks and then returns nervous attention to his left arm, though his eyes protest against further observation. Boucher pushes up his sleeve and runs a thumb down the crook of the boy's elbow. "You've got strong veins, kid," he notes, impressed, "They'll last you a long time."

"For what?"

"Oh, this 'n' that." Boucher ties something rubbery just above Edward's elbow and lightly pinches where Ed can estimate said vein runs. "Just don't think about it, okay? Breathe easy and slow, and keep talkin', a'right?"

Easier said than done. "…okay."

"Tell me what you're gonna do at this assessment o'yours."

"Don't really know. Could always blow through them… before."

"But you don't feel up to that today?"

Ed hesitates to answer, and — unfortunately — it is that moment in which cold metal breaks his skin. It takes every ounce of his willpower not to bolt (not that he'd get very far with this headache), but he makes an instinctive sound of protest.

"Aw, it's all right, kid. You're doin' great; just breathe."

The agonizing seconds pass, but as they do, a change washes over Ed. His pain seems somehow distant, as if it's falling away from him, and it is replaced by warmth as comforting as a blanket that has been hanging in the sun all day. Before he even knows it, a small smile has fit itself into place on his face. An announcement of _"All done,"_ barely even reaches his ears, so enraptured is he by this new sensation. Boucher has to tap him on the shoulder and suggest several times that Ed try opening his eyes before the boy heeds the instruction. Like a charm, the light doesn't hurt nearly as much now. Still wearing that smile, Ed looks at Boucher properly for the first time this morning. He's a gangly, spiderlike sort of man, with narrow, sharp eyes not much darker than Ed's own amber ones, rich auburn hair mostly slicked back over his skull, and a deep natural tan. His voice is melodic, and its accent notes Aerugan ancestry — but all of this flits across Edward's mind in starts and stops. True, his headache has been numbed, but so has the rest of his brain. How is he supposed to focus for his assessment now?

Of course, that thought gets pushed aside when he sharply feels queasy. Moments later, he's hacking watery sick into the bin Boucher had forethought to hand him.

"That's it; get it all out," counsels the proprietor, rubbing Edward's back as the boy regains his bearings. "Feel betteh' now, do ya?"

After a few shaky breaths, Ed nods. Now that the wave of nausea has passed and his headache has been alleviated, the small blond realizes just how hungry he is (and thirsty, too, after vomiting up some of the water he'd drunk before.

"Splendid. I'll get ya some more wateh'. Help yourself to the sandwich now; food'll do ya some good."

Soon enough, Edward sates both thirst and hunger, and he is able to stand without keeling. He feels surprisingly good. What had he been so down about before? It slips his mind…

"So—" (Boucher is currently calculating Ed's bill.) "—any idea what you're gonna do about that assessment now?"

_Assessment? Oh yeah… That's kind of important, isn't it?_ "I… should go back to the hotel… to get my notes, yeah. I'll think of something then."

"Sounds like a sensible plan. Well, young masteh', it has been a pleasure." He bows low after receiving his young customer's money and ushers the boy to the door. "Feel free to come back anytime."

Muttering thanks, the Edward leaves The Butcher.

It takes him nearly two hours to find his way back to the military hotel, what with stumbling down dead-end detours and stopping every now and then to keep the world from spinning. Whatever pain reliever Boucher had given Ed, the stuff is powerful. Even so, by the time he crosses the threshold of the hotel and pauses to catch his breath at the front desk, most of the effects have worn off, with his headache close on their heels.

"Um… sir? Are you all right?" The desk clerk, who recognizes Ed, tries to catch his eye. "Do you need assistance getting to your room? It, uh… smells like you've had a few drinks there."

Oh, shit. He smells like booze? Having been acclimated to it, he hadn't noticed. He'll have to shower before he goes to Central Command. There's a little sample scent in the bathroom, something foresty; that should help mask the alcohol's lingering odor. Edward waves off the clerk's offer of help, assuring her that he's not as bad as he may look. For though his headache has returned, it's not as potent as it was at first, thank goodness.

"I'm back." He announces this out of habit, momentarily forgetting that no one will answer him. No one is waiting for him here in this empty room. Wait… empty? It's empty. That is, none of the furniture is missing, or Ed's luggage, or _anything_ except— "…Al?" He's gone. No note, no scuffmarks of a struggle, no _nothing_! It's as if the younger Elric brother has evaporated.

This realization both elates and terrifies Ed. Because Al isn't here. That means he may have regained consciousness, may be walking and talking just like before! But… Al isn't here. That means he may have decided to leave for good, may be taking his chances on his own rather than remaining chained to the elder brother who has done nothing but fail him. For many long minutes, Edward stands just inside the doorway of the hotel room, gathering his thoughts. This is for the best, really. He can now with confidence say that Al is on a trip, that he's investigating a lead on his own so that they can cover more ground. Yeah, it's a foolproof story. But he… what is _Ed_ supposed to do now? Without Al… if Al really has abandoned him, then what point is there to… well, anything? He had dedicated his entire life to making right what he had done to Alphonse, and without his younger brother, it's like all motivation has been bled from him through a fatal wound.

He doesn't want to face this. He doesn't want to encounter people he knows and hear them ask constantly where Alphonse is. It's easier, _better_, for him to just… well, he'll think of something… maybe… Listlessly, Edward goes through the motions of showering and marinating himself with the wood-scented mist in the bathroom. The mirror only gets a cursory glance; there's practically nothing he can do about how awful he looks — even his usual forced smiles look painful. He piles all of his meager belongings into his travelling trunk, snaps it shut, and hoists it with one arm. One last look around the room. He hasn't missed anything. That's it, then — time to bid this place farewell.

After checking out at the hotel desk, Edward follows the streets toward the imposing edifice of Central Command. To think that, only two years ago, he had come to this city full of determination and hope. And look how easily both have deserted him. It's like he's a mere shell now, no different than Alphonse: trapped in a body that cannot feel. These are the chilling thoughts which accompany him into the Administration Offices building. An available teller quickly catches his eye and calls out to him.

"Can I help you?"

"…I'm… here about reassessment. For State Alchemists."

"Name?" the clerk prompts as he takes a step toward bins of files a ways behind the counter.

"Edward Elric."

After a span of rifling, his file is successfully retrieved. Ed watches with dulled attention as the teller open the manila folder and scans the information within. Like clockwork, the realization hits the poor fellow. "You mean… _you're_ Edward Elric, the Fullmetal Alchemist?"

"I am, or at least…" Unclipping his pocket-watch from his belt, Ed deposits the means of identification on the counter. "…I was. This is my resignation."

"What's that?" A booming, much too friendly-sounding voice breaks through the humdrum behind Edward's right shoulder. Turning on fighting instinct, the young blond finds a tall, broad-shouldered man, with dark skin and greying hair and beard. His sky blue eyes are wide with disbelief as he stares intently at Ed.

"G-General Raven, sir!" The clerk's snappy salute has Ed glancing back at him, and the quick movement doesn't do wonders for his lingering headache. A general? Dammit, just what he needs: one of the brass trying to nag him into staying on. He really doesn't have the energy for this.

"At ease, soldier," says Raven lightheartedly (The man is _much_ too smiley for Ed's liking). "Now, then, what's this I'm overhearing about the Fullmetal Alchemist resigning?"

_Go away._

"With all due respect, General, I think that's called eavesdropping."

Raven blinks, clearly taken aback by Ed's brusque reply. But, within seconds, he's back to laughing, and he claps the boy on the automail shoulder. "You are a spunky one, aren't you, Elric? A real firebrand!" After working through his chortles, however, the senior officer grows more solemn. "But, really, Fullmetal, what's come over you? The Führer speaks so highly of your determination; why back out now?"

"I want out."

"No, seriously—"

"I'm _done_."

"And there's nothing I can say that will cha—"

"Nothing." Returning his attention to the teller, Ed asks tersely, "Can I go?"

"Well, um…" The coward looks to Raven for instructions before defaulting to procedure. "We'll need you to remain in Central while we, um, process this… request."

"It's _not_ a _request_! I'm _quitting_, you hear me!?" He really hadn't meant to yell, and doing so nearly takes the wind out of him, so that General Raven ends up steadying him.

"Easy there, lad. No one's going to force you to remain a State Alchemist. We're all simply surprised, that's all." After giving a nod to the clerk, Raven crouches to get closer to Ed's eye level (He _really_ hates it when people do that). "Look, to show no hard feelings, I'll drive you where you're staying. We have to send our finest off in style, do we not?"

Edward determinedly avoids the soldier's eyes. "I'm not staying anywhere. I thought I'd be able to leave after turning in my watch, so I checked out of my hotel earlier."

"But, there must be somewhere I can take you," presses the general, making it clear that he won't be deterred from seeing the boy to a destination. "A friend's house, or…?"

The young alchemist ponders that, but it's the ache encircling his skull, the longing to get away from everything resembling responsibility and drown himself in distraction, that finally gives him an answer. "Well… there is one place."


	4. MOTIVE

[A/N]: This chapter contains dubiously-consensual sex. You have been warned.

+.+.+.+.+.+.+.+.+

**MOTIVE**

Leopold Raven is a man who loves beauty and youth. Is it really such a surprise, then, that, with the prospect of old age looming before him ever closer, he would buy into the glorious scheme of the Good Gentleman? To think: immortality within his grasp! Less than three years, and it will all be complete! But his appreciation for beautiful things is not limited to plans for eternal youth. No, he has myriad other means of delving into his love for the aesthetic. Take now, for example. Here he is, in the back of his car, seated across from a rare gem in human form. He had seen snapshots of Edward Elric before, but, in grayscale, they had done nothing close to justice of his radiant palette. The rich tan skin, the shimmering golden hair, the glowing amber eyes— it's about all Leopold can do to hold back his urge to _touch_ the boy.

The driver turns down yet another side street in the direction of this Butcher establishment Edward had named, and the inertia causes the two passengers to slide an inch or so along their seats. The young alchemist barely reacts to this, almost as if his mind is absent from his body. Yes, he had gotten angry at Administration, but that had been a brief spike breaking through this dreary plateau of emotion. Had the boy's spirits really been this tied to the wellbeing of the younger brother? The general sighs. He's tempted, so _very_ tempted to take Edward home and handle everything himself, but the threat of scandal would be too great. No, he'll have to oversee an arrangement, the thought of which has him patting a pocket full of bribe money for reassurance. Thanks to Envy's foresight, everything can remain under control.

Finally, the car rattles to a halt. "Here you are, sir," the driver calls.

"Thank you," Leopold answers cheerily, a diplomatic smile already nestled into place on his face. "Just wait here for me a moment, will you?"

"Right-o, sir."

"Come on now, Fullmetal." The general pats the boy's shoulder. "We've arrived."

Edward stirs and rubs his forehead. It had been difficult to tell before, due to a strong mist he'd been wearing, but the smell of drink clings to the young blond. Still, Leopold continues to smile as he gradually coaxes the lad from the car and toward The Butcher's door, opening it for him as they approach.

It's early evening; the first few heavy drinkers are wandering in, so the bar isn't crowded. Excellent. Leopold's uniform has eyes turning to the odd pair of man and boy, and whispers quickly get passed between employees. Within two minutes of entering, a man who looks like the proprietor emerges from a shady corner.

"Well, well," he says with a chuckle. "How can I help you?"

"I'm merely escorting young Edward here," Leopold answers, his hands placed protectively on each of the small blond's shoulders. "He told me I could bring him here for lodgings."

The fellow (young Edward had named him as _"Boucher")_ tries to catch the boy's eye, as if to ask him what the hell he's thinking, bringing high brass here, but he must not succeed in the silent communiqué, because his gaze returns to Leopold's. "I did put him up last night," he admits, "if that's your meanin'. Couldn't let a kid roam these streets at night."

"How very generous of you," the general compliments. Before anything more can be said, though, Leopold feels Edward tremble in his grasp. "Is something the matter, m'lad?"

"…Don't feel good…" The small blond has a hand clamped over his mouth, and that is indication enough of his meaning.

"Here, now," offers Boucher, "I'll see you too the loo in back, young masteh'."

Leopold follows the two down a narrow hallway, walking at a leisurely pace. So this is where young Edward had fled the previous night. …Yes, this will do _quite_ nicely.

"Mr. Boucher."

The proprietor, having ushered the boy into the bathroom, meets the soldier's gaze. "Oh, looks like you have the advantage o'my name on me, general…"

"—Raven." Leopold introduces himself with an accompanying handshake. "I realize my presence is something of a surprise, but, I must say, I'm relieved to find that a man such as yourself is in charge of this fine establishment."

Boucher raises a crooked eyebrow, but says nothing.

"You see, I would very much like to discuss a business proposition with you. It concerns young Edward, and I'd prefer that he didn't overhear. Neither would it be ideal for him to roam around while we discuss this matter."

That has a knowing smirk settling into place on the proprietor's face. "I getcha. One moment, _General Raven_." Boucher returns to the main room of the bar, and by the time he has brought back a glass of what looks like water, the sound of a flushing toilet can be heard from within the bathroom, followed by that of the faucet. Within moments, Edward emerges, looking pale, but less green at least.

"Feeling any better?" the general inquires, beaming affectionately.

Young Elric shrugs and mumbles, "Bit."

"Have a drink, Ed." Boucher pushes the glass into the boy's hand and steadies it as the blond drains it without hesitation. And that, as it turns out, is his undoing: no sooner has Edward gulped down the last of it than he sways. Handing off the empty glass to Leopold, Boucher scoops the boy up in princess style and smiles shrewdly to the soldier. "We can discuss this privately in my suite in back."

The general chuckles. "An excellent idea. Please, lead the way."

At the far end of the hall is a small apartment. Entering through the front door yields a living room, with a handful of doors no doubt leading to a bedroom and the like. Boucher offers an armchair to Leopold, taking the sofa for Edward, who is by this point clearly unconscious, and himself.

"My, my," the soldier notes, taking his seat and setting the empty class on a side table, "whatever you gave him put him out quickly."

"One of the many services my bar can provide, General."

Just looking at Boucher, Leopold senses that he has a kindred spirit in this man. The way he looks at young Edward, the way his hands support the limp child with such care… yes, this is a man who knows how rare and precious such a charge is.

"Now, then," presses the fellow. "What is this business proposition o'yours?"

"Ah, yes." Leopold folds his fingers in thought, his diplomatic expression still snugly in place. "To get right down to it, I would like for you to look after Edward."

"Oh? What for, if I may ask?"

"Young Elric is of great importance to the military — far more so than he realizes. He has always been an unorthodox State Alchemist, but, since he has given up that title as of today, we cannot permit him to run around on such a long leash anymore. However, we do not have the authority to arrest him or confine him to a sanitarium, so…" He spreads his hands, hoping the other will understand.

Boucher laughs. "I've tamed many a dog in my time, General." His grip tightens around the boy's shoulders. "This one may even be easier than most, considerin' how out o'sorts he was when I met him last night. But, uh… what do I get for doin' this for you?"

Leopold pulls out the roll of bills and waves it enticingly. "It's very simple, Mr. Boucher. Keep Edward Elric here, keep him alive, and keep him docile. Do those three things, and what _else_ you do with him is up to you." And the implications in that sentence are very specific, surely understood easily by a man like Boucher. "You can name your price; money is no object."

The proprietor's eyes narrow. "What about protection? If I'm doin' your dirty work, I deserve not to get backstabbed for it."

"Oh, naturally, we shall supply you with ample immunity, for this and… other dealings you may have."

"You don't say…" Spindly shoulders shake with a dark chuckle. "Well, General Raven, this is an offer I'd be a fool to turn down."

Leopold holds out the money, his own smile curling with satisfaction. "So… we have a deal?"

+.+.+

He doesn't really remember how he fell asleep. One moment he'd been shaky, but very much awake, and then— …what had happened after that? He'd been at The Butcher, right? Boucher… Boucher had given him a drink… but it had just been water, hadn't it? Boucher wouldn't… _drug_ him, would he? Agh, who is he kidding? He doesn't really know the man at all. He has no evidence to support a claim that Boucher would give a damn for his wellbeing, aside from how nice he had been this morning. Of course, _then_ he had been a paying customer. What is he now? Had Boucher spoken with Raven? Are they planning something together? Can someone just pull him out of this suffocating darkness and give him some answers!?

The fact that he pieces that exasperated thought together, however, is a sign that he's surfacing. Before much longer, Edward feels connected to his body enough to crack open his eyelids. The room is dimly lit, which makes it even more difficult to establish where he is. Whether that's a blessing or a curse, however, isn't left to debate much longer, because a voice easily identified as Boucher's draws his attention within moments.

"I was startin' to worry you'd stay asleep until mornin'." A shifting blur reveals the man's position, seated at the end of the bed in which Ed lies. The boy tries squinting in Boucher's direction, but can't make out his features or expression. "But, now that you're awake, we can get down to business."

Half of Ed is listening to the proprietor, but the other half is still exploring the pathways of his groggy body, and it is that half which sends him a red flag first. His hands won't move. That is, he can feel them just fine, but they seem to be bound to either end of the headboard, fingers and all, so tightly that he can't so much as wiggle a pinky. "Wh—" Ed coughs roughly, thanks to an uncooperative dry throat. "What's going on?" Again he looks around in hopes of ascertaining his whereabouts. "Where's—" Another cough. "—Raven?"

"Oh, the general?" Boucher leans closer, and Edward can finally make out his face, not that the grin placed there is reassuring by any means. The boy doesn't have to have the details to know already that he's landed himself in a very bad situation. "The old man," Boucher continues, "has graciously entrusted you to me. Well, maybe not _graciously_. Fella's payin' me stacks to keep an eye on ya."

Keep an eye on? Does this mean he is some kind of _prisoner_? Why? Does this have to do with Ed's leaving the military? Does that mess something up for Raven, so he's sold Ed out to this… this… well, actually, Ed isn't quite sure _what_ Boucher is, aside from a bar-owner and a smooth talker.

"All the same," the Aerugan presses on, "I'm a greedy man, so I don't feel like _settlin'_ for handouts from the good ol' military. I have anotheh' scheme in mind for you, kid. Can ya guess what it is?"

Edward's attention is, once again, split between Boucher and his own body. There's something strange about the way these bedsheets on top of him feel — or, rather, the fact that he _can_ feel them. He shouldn't be able to sense the texture of that smooth, silky fabric against his body; his clothes should get in the way. But they aren't… which means—

"What're you gonna do to me?" The predictable question is out of Ed's mouth before he can get any kind of control over it, over how frightened and childish it sounds. In fact, the lapse in bravery probably has him turning pink.

Boucher laughs. "I'll tell ya. See, Ed, when you came in here last night, I couldn't help but wondeh' where you got your hair and eyes. Awfully exotic-looking, ya see? So, before you were up this morning, I stuck my feelers out and got some information." The man taps an index finger against Ed's nose, his grin broadening. "You, my little gold mine, have Xerxian blood in ya."

_Xerxian?_ Ed ponders._ As in the ancient civilization that was destroyed in a single night? But, how could I be related to—? Wait… does this have to do with Hoh—_

"Do you know how rare it is to find a Xerxian, Edward?" Boucher's practically purring now. "How much people will pay to look at a Xerxian? To, uh, _admire_ one?" And his hand rests on the small hill of sheets that hides Ed's left thigh, sliding, _stroking_.

"Stop that!" Ed doesn't even pause to be embarrassed at how squeaky the demand had sounded. He would kick at Boucher if his legs weren't half-asleep and trapped under bedsheets. "Th-there's no way General Raven gave you permission to—"

"He only gave me three mandates." Boucher goes through the list with his other hand, tapping thumb to finger for each point. "Keep you _here_, keep you _alive_, and keep you _docile_. His words were, and I quote, _'Do those three things, and what **else** you do with him is up to you.'"_

Ed only hopes that he doesn't _look_ as scared as he _feels_.

"_Ha! _Do you know what kind of reputation General Raven has on _my_ level of society? Man's a lecheh' to the core. Why, it wouldn't surprise me if he comes by to _admire_ you himself. A guy like me knows when a man is strippin' away layers with his eyes."

The more Boucher talks, the more Ed's breathing picks up pace, and the more he squirms against his bonds. Unfortunately, in his weakened state, all that those efforts get him are lightheadedness and a throbbing left hand.

"Hey, now," coos the man, "No need for all that fidgetin'." With some shifting, Boucher climbs onto the bed and traps Ed's wriggling body under his (and Ed can't help but notice that his captor is only wearing a bathrobe). "I know I've probably made myself look like the bad guy here, but I think I can help you just as much as you're gonna help me."

That gives Edward pause. "Wh..what do you mean?"

"That drug I gave ya this morning, the one that numbed your pain and put that cute little smile on your face: I'll give you more of it. Be a good boy and do as I say, and I'll give you enough of that drug so's that you won't even know what's happenin' around ya."

"Why would I wan—?"

"_Because_," Boucher presses, grasping Ed's chin with a firm, but not necessarily rough, grip, "You're a lost soul, little boy. You're in this business as long as I've been, and you can pick 'em out real easy-like. You came in here last night lookin' like death would be a sweet release for ya. Unfortunately, I can't afford to let you die, so I can give you the next-best thing: _distraction_. That is my specialty, remembeh'?"

Edward doesn't know where he starts really listening, but by the time Boucher has said his piece, the young alchemist is hanging on his next word. Is he really so easily persuaded by the dangling lure of a way to forget about his failures and demons? Enough to overcome the fear of having his body be used for profit?

"Will it… hurt? Being… _admired_?" Because he isn't stupid; he could figure out what that euphemism had meant.

Boucher's smile curls, as if he had been waiting for that very question. After all, it's more or less a sign of Ed's surrender. "It might hurt, but — _if you behave_ — you'll be deep in a sweet dream, paying no mind."

So that's how it is. Ed's going to be forced into this either way. All he can do is make it more bearable for himself. Even though he doesn't have much choice in the matter, he mulls over the consequences of his decision to have Raven bring him back to this place. It does dent his pride to think that _this_ is how he's going to become acquainted with sexual matters, but the more he laments that, the louder an accusatory whisper hisses at him: _Al couldn't can't feel anything, and you're whining about not having an ideal first time? This is your punishment for not being able to restore him. Drink in the pain, and remember that it's nothing compared to the aching emptiness Al's had to endure. Remember why Al left you, why he hates you. You're wretched and pathetic; this is what you deserve!_

"Looks like you've made up your mind to be a good boy," Boucher chuckles. Ed hadn't realized how transparent his expression had been, and he feels his face flush again. He would ask Boucher to back off, but he gets the impression that such a demand would go unheeded, even were he to voice it. "Well, then, now that we've made our little arrangement, I think it's important that I quality-assurance test my merchandise."

"Now don't get all skittish on me again," he adds when Ed jolts under him in alarm. "I'm an expert, Edward. I know how to handle _precious cargo_. Just take deep, slow breaths, and I'll take care of the rest. Oh, and if ya kick at me, I'll tie your legs down."

Edward isn't sure if it's fear, the promise of the numbing drug, or simple curiosity that keeps him still. If, a week ago, someone had told him he'd be in this situation in a matter of days, he'd have punched them in the face. How surprisingly little it had taken to break him.

The first thing Boucher does, once he's confident that Ed won't fight back, is pull down the sheets, and, though he's got goosebumps running all down his body, Ed fights the protective instinct to pull his legs up and hide his nakedness. Just the way Boucher's looking at him makes him shiver all the more, but he stays still. Deep breaths. The next thing Boucher does is disrobe — and Ed admittedly hadn't been ready for that. He's seen other men in public bathrooms, of course, but it's kind of rude to stare across urinals, so it isn't as if he's _actively looked_. Perhaps for that very reason, he finds, right now, that he can't look anywhere else. Boucher seems even ganglier in the nude, and Ed spares a cursory thought to wondering if the proportions of what he's currently fixated on follow suit. He wouldn't know, his own being too undeveloped for any kind of proper comparison. To his ignorant eyes, Boucher's just… big. As the man positions himself over Ed, the young blond knows his heart rate is picking up, despite his efforts to maintain steady breathing. The blood's pounding in his ears as Boucher draws closer and closer, until the man's lips press to Ed's throat. Due to embarrassment and suppressed panic, Ed tries to block out what follows, but he knows that Boucher's fingers are skittering up and down his naked body, as if searching for something. And apparently they find it, because when Boucher rubs his thumbs against Ed's nipples, the boy tenses with a stifled gasp.

"_Heh_, you're a sensitive tyke." Boucher chuckles. "Is this your first time?"

Ed says nothing, but his red face is probably answer enough. Boucher just snickers some more. "Even better; so you're a delicate untouched floweh', are ya?"

The young blond's lips press into a thin line as he resists the urge to blow his stack at all of these belittling names and metaphors. That stern expression doesn't last long, though, because Boucher slides down Ed's body, spreads the boy's legs, and runs a curious finger along the sensitive skin, much to Edward's chagrin. "Too spooked to get hard yet?" Boucher teases. "Poor thing."

But the young blond certainly doesn't expect the man then to lean down and take the lifeless flesh into his mouth, like he plans to eat the boy. Something sounding dangerously like a squeak escapes Edward as the sensation of moist heat surrounds him. As his spine arches in response, Ed finds his hips pressing toward Boucher, even though the remaining shreds of his common sense are howling in protest in the back of his mind. The ordeal doesn't last long, but it's long enough that Ed knows his face is practically glowing with embarrassment and lust, though he won't admit to the latter, even to himself.

"There we go," Boucher chuckles as he straightens. Ed doesn't have to look to know that the man's attention has sent blood rushing between his legs, leaving him flushed and slightly throbbing. "_Heh_, cute little fella, just like the rest of ya."

Edward reminds himself that he has to bear it — he _has_ to— in order to punish himself for what he'd done to his only brother. It doesn't matter how humiliating or degrading what Boucher has planned for him is; he'll endure all of it, if only hanging on by a hair. So the stance he takes is not to think about it: a plan that sounds simple, but, in execution, proves all but impossible. How can he ignore what's happening when it's all so new, when his natural curiosities and caged hormones wake up and are all too eager to cooperate? Boucher seems to guess what's going on in the boy's head, and it has him smirking broadly as ever. With those spidery fingers, the man cups the crooks of Ed's knees and rolls the legs up toward the young blond's chest.

"Stay like that," he commands. And Ed does, even though the position leaves his ass very much exposed and facing straight up. Is it possible to _die_ from embarrassment?

Despite feeling on the verge of panic at this point, Edward does not avert his gaze from Boucher's movements. Perhaps he reckons, in the end, that it's better to see it coming than to be taken by surprise. Looks like the _"don't think about it"_ plan is out the window, then. The least Ed can do is accept his due punishment with as brave a face as he can muster.

He expects it to hurt, especially after Boucher's warnings, but, then again, the man had said he knew how to be careful with delicate things, so perhaps he shouldn't be so surprised. In any case, Boucher retrieves a little tub of what looks like a gelatin and coats two fingers in the stuff (the middle and ring of his right hand). Knelt over Edward once more, he then presses the pad of one finger to Ed's anus. After a span of slow rimming, Boucher pushes it in, much to Ed's alarm, inch by inch until it's nearly sunk to the knuckle.

Well… now he knows why the hand gesture for _"fuck you"_ is what it is.

After initially cringing, Ed takes a few breaths, adjusting himself to the feel of it. It's weird — there's no two ways about that — but, aside from the strangeness of it, any discomfort from the entry quickly fades from the overall sensation. Still, he really doesn't get why this would be considered so pleasurable — that is, he doesn't until Boucher pushes a little deeper and curls his finger. _That_ hits a spot that sends a tremor through Ed. If he hadn't been aroused before, he sure as hell is now.

"Atta' boy," Boucher encourages. He repeats the movement a few times, then slides the second finger in to join its fellow. The man's clearly enjoying the way that the boy is soaking up the stimulation. "This doesn't have to be all bad, ya see?

Edward nods, but doesn't quite realize that he does. It's as if this swell of lust is bypassing his normal brain and only leaving operational the parts that are necessary for enjoying what's happening. In some distant compartment of his mind, he's ashamed of how he's behaving, but apparently that isn't important right now. In fact… is anything important anymore? Without Al… With Al gone, the anchor of Ed's life has been ripped up, leaving him adrift in the storm. What Boucher has offered, what Boucher's giving him right now, isn't so much a new anchor as it is a sandbar, but as long as Ed can stop feeling so groundless and tossed about, he doesn't care. Anything to land, even if to crash and burn. He might as well make the conscious choice to wreck himself.

Boucher has withdrawn his fingers, and Ed has a vague idea of what he can expect next. But he isn't afraid anymore. He tells himself that it's not so bad. He tells himself this is better than the open sea of purposelessness. So, he closes his eyes and turns the helm of his soul toward the sandbar. Full steam ahead.


	5. SUSPICION

[A/N]: This chapter contains mentions of dubiously-consensual sex. You have been warned.

+.+.+.+.+.+.+.+.+

**SUSPICION**

Riza Hawkeye had been expecting a quiet day at the office (as quiet as any day could get with the colonel on her hands), so color her surprised when her usual, "_Good morning, sir,"_ is not returned by a, "_Good morning, Lieutenant."_

"Sir?" Riza turns from the door she'd just closed, shutting the two of them into the private space allocated to the colonel (No less than he deserved as one of the highest-ranking officers at Eastern Command).

Roy looks up from his stacks of unattended paperwork and meets her eyes, his own filled with worry (though few could read that face the way she could). "I just got a call from Fiona Clellan."

"Sir?" It really is quite an accomplishment how many unspoken questions she can package into that one word. First it had been, "_What's wrong?"_ and now, "_Fiona?"_

"Surely you remember her: ginger, mid-20s, works as a military therapist in Central?"

"Sir, please remember _who_ _introduced_ _you_ to the woman in question."

Roy looks a bit sheepish; whatever's going on must have rattled him enough that he's forgetting details (Just where would he be without her?) "Oh… right." His expression, however, quickly fades back into that look of tensed concern. "Anyway, she called me just now with… some news that's _disconcerting_, to say the least." A pause for breath. "The Elrics are missing."

Riza's heart might just stutter, though her expression retains most of its calm. "_Missing_? How much does Fiona know about this?"

"She— I'll start from the beginning. A few days ago, Fiona received a notice that Fullmetal would no longer be her patient."

Ah, yes, _that's_ the connection. Riza had happened upon Fiona when the latter had been lobbying for the installment of psychological therapists within the military. Despite having few people willing to invest in the newfangled practice, Miss Clellan had finally found a supporter in Colonel Mustang and had subsequently been given permission to set up as the first military therapist. In the three years since then, others have joined Fiona in this effort to promote mental health in the military, but — when young Edward had become a State Alchemist — Roy had insisted upon connecting the two, in the hopes that Fiona would be able to help the boy process the traumas of his past. Whether the man shows it or not, he cares a great deal about the Elric brothers, especially Edward, who is the more troubled of the two by far.

"Naturally," Roy continues, "she investigated to find out _why_. Apparently, all anyone would tell her is that, about three weeks ago, the kid stumbled into Administrations and handed in his watch."

Sherry eyes widen. "Edward _quit_?" Because it wasn't like Edward Elric to quit at _anything_.

"Exactly: completely out-of-character. She tried to get in contact with the Elrics directly, but they aren't at their last known lodgings, and there was no forwarding address left with Fullmetal's resignation."

Riza brings a thoughtful finger to her chin, digesting what she's just heard. "Why would it take so long for such an important document to work its way through Administrations?"

"I thought that, too. The whole thing is suspicious. And as far as Fiona's investigated, no one's seen hide nor hair of the brothers since then. No train tickets from Central purchased by them, either. They're just—" Roy lifts his hands to indicate the empty air. "_Gone_. So she called me, hoping I could shed some light, but I'm just as baffled."

_And_ worried, but Riza deems that such an addendum doesn't need to be said aloud. Instead, she thumbs through her armful of papers before making a helpful suggestion. "Well, sir, you're long overdue for a leave of absence."

A hint of Roy's smile returns. "Am I now? No reason to put well-earned leave to waste."

"None indeed. Tickets for tomorrow's first train to Central?"

"You think of everything."

Riza's gentle nod says_, "That's why I'm here, sir."_

+.+.+

"Ah, General. Was wonderin' when you'd come around. It's been what — three weeks?"

"That it has." Raven clasps Doyle's extended hand and shakes it with enthusiasm. The old man sure is cheerful; hopefully what he has to report will keep the fellow that way.

"Can I presume you're here to check on your, uh, _investment_?"

Raven's grin broadens. "You can indeed. Where—?"

"Right this way." As the two men amble down the hallway of The Butcher, Doyle gives his guest a preview of what to expect. "He's lost some weight, but it's nothin' to worry about. I make sure he gets all o'his important nutrients every day. I.V.s work wonders."

"Has he resisted much?"

"Naaah. Kid's tame as a kitten. It just took offerin' him the right deal." On that note, they reach the door leading to his apartment, and he ushers the general inside. "Ed? We've got company."

The call earns a noncommittal groan from the bedroom. Kid must be dozing — he sleeps almost all day, what with the junk coursing through him. It's a normal reaction, but it doesn't make him the most hospitable of people. (Luckily, most of little Edward's _visitors_ don't care if he's hospitable.) Doyle pulls open the bedroom door and reveals the investment to the investor. Ed's lying (sprawled, really) on the bed Doyle's been letting the kid share with him, naked save for a pair of low-cut briefs, with his pretty golden hair framing his face like a halo. Any paling from drug use hasn't ruined the overall effect of the boy's natural tan, though the weight he's lost in these past three weeks has taken some muscle off of him as well as fat. But he's still beautiful. Hell, that's why Doyle makes the most of sharing the bed every night, and why he's already thinking about what Raven might ask for.

"Hey, kid." The proprietor takes a seat on the side of the bed closest to Edward and runs fingers through that gorgeous head of shimmering hair. The boy stirs at his touch — nuzzles into his hand, even. Such a good little pup. Ed opens his eyes just enough that the bedside lamp makes those eyes of his glow, but they're glazed. And understandably so — he'd shot the kid up little less than two hours ago; at this level of tolerance, his high won't have run its course yet. Doyle leans down and kisses his little gold mine. "How're ya doin'?"

Again, just a groan (or maybe this one could be more characterized as a moan).

"The general's come to see you. Didn't I tell ya he would?"

Edward gives the laziest of nods. Doyle smiles encouragingly to Raven, expecting to be praised for his impressive work, but the soldier seems too absorbed in the sight of the Xerxian, lying there all exposed with the sheets kicked down and the gleam of sweat making him so tantalizing, like a meal that's been set out for him. As the handler of this masterpiece, Doyle quite understands… but he also wants the approval necessary to being paid.

"Well, then," he says to Edward, "let's get you sat up so the man can see you betteh'." It takes a fair amount of shifting, but eventually, Ed is upright, settled in Doyle's cross-legged lap on the bed and leaning against him as if no place could be safer. With the kid all quiet-like, Doyle decides to reward such good behavior by sliding his hand down Ed's front and giving him a stroking. Like most pets would, Edward soaks up the attention like a sponge; he'd probably purr, if he could.

"Well, General," says Doyle, his smirk wide as anything, "If this isn't the picture o''_docile'_, I don't know what is."

For a moment, Raven just watches. If Ed's a sponge, then Raven's a man dying of thirst, and seeing the way that young body curves and rolls in response to Doyle's touch— mmmm, it's making _him_ hard just describing it to himself. But, business first. "General: you _do_ have my money, don't you?"

"Hmm? Oh! Oh, yes."

Finally! When the green has, at last, traded hands _and_ been counted and tucked safely into Doyle's nightstand drawer, the realm of pleasant possibilities opens up for discussion. "Ed, we're awful grateful to the general for lettin' you live this life, aren't we?"

Edward doesn't seem to comprehend the question, but (since the kid knows what's good for him) he nods. With the one hand still down the boy's briefs, Doyle brings the other to Ed's face, squeezing the cheeks so that the lips are forced to pucker.

"Then we should thank him. How about we let him use this cute mouth of yours, hmm?"

No protest.

"Such a good boy."

Raven's blue eyes are alight with excitement as he approaches the bed. Soon his grip replaces Doyle's, and he claims a heated kiss from little Edward. There's nothing quite like watching a lecherous old man at work. This should be fun.

+.+.+

He'd barely slept that night. As if anyone could sleep with such things on the brain. Just what had that idiot gotten himself into? Just what's his point in dropping off the grid without so much as a, '_Thanks for the memories"_? When he finds Edward Elric, he's going to give that snot-nosed punk a piece of his mind! (And then he's going to demand of Alphonse why _he_ hadn't kept the hotheaded brother in line.)

The train they'd caught had definitely been the earliest one. Even accounting for the days growing shorter, the sun hadn't even appeared over the horizon by the time they'd boarded. Roy had dozed off here and there, but the rattling of the train had always shaken him back to consciousness before he could really rest. Thus, when the iron behemoth finally begins to slow and Hawkeye tells him this is their stop, it's about all the colonel can manage just to pull himself out of his seat. But he doesn't have time to be tired. He has a bullheaded State Alchemist to locate. Or… _ex_-State Alchemist. Same difference.

As they step onto the platform, Roy raises his arms in a much-needed stretch, accompanied by a brief yawn. Then he rubs the drowsiness from his eyes and looks around. Through the steam of the cooling engine, he spots a familiar face.

"Oh— Fiona!" With enough calling and waving, he catches the young woman's attention. She's much the same as when he'd seen her last, which isn't a surprise, seeing as how Miss Clellan had struck him as a creature of habit for as long as he'd known her. What Roy doesn't expect, though, is for her to have company. At Fiona's side is the younger Clellan sister, Briana, who can only be described as a polar opposite to her elder sibling. Where Fiona presents an image of tranquility, Briana presents one of volatility — even her palette comprises more vibrant hues than her sister's. In a way, these two remind him of the Elric brothers, if Alphonse had been the elder of the two. That's why Fiona had employed her little sister's help in getting through to Edward whenever the stubborn blond had actually gone in for a session (which had been rare, in and of itself). Both Roy and Fiona had hoped that the two's similarity in temperament would give Ed someone he could connect with and open up to, but — thanks to confidentiality policies — he'd never known if that tactic had yielded any results.

But, back to business: the real kick is who is _with_ the Clellans.

"Roy!" Before the owner of that name can get out a return greeting, he's being crushed in a hug from Maes Hughes. "It's been ages since you've come to Central; would it have been such a bother for you to call more often?"

"_You_. call _me_. enough. as. it is," scoffs Roy, his words broken up by hearty thumps on the back from his old friend.

"C'mon, don't sound so sour about it." Hughes releases him and shakes hands with Hawkeye, leaving Roy available to speak to Fiona.

"Any news?"

Her somber expression is answer enough.

"How did Hughes get pulled into this?"

"Well," his friend cuts in, "after seeing the good doctor—"

"I told you, Lieutenant Colonel," Fiona pipes up, "I'm not _technically_ a doctor."

"Agh, I'm sure you _will be_, once someone starts validating doctorates in psychology. Anyway, she was coming by Investigations three times a day, and I knew _something_ had to be up. Once she told me that Elric Brothers that you've been looking after were involved, well — there was no turning back."

"I haven't been looking after them," grumbles the colonel, with the mental addendum, _That's the whole problem._

More greetings are exchanged (though Briana is surprisingly quiet) before the cluster of five exits Central Station.

"There's no need for you and Riza to get a hotel," Hughes inputs to Roy as soon as they've hit the main street. "Gracia and I would be delighted to host you."

"That's very generous of you, Lieutenant Colonel," says Hawkeye.

"It's really no trouble." On a more solemn note, he adds, "At least I can guarantee that my house is free of wire-tapping. Whatever's going on here smells fishy, right up to the top brass, and I don't want to take any chances with you two."

"You sound like a mother hen," Roy grumbles.

"Someone's got to look after you kids." The retort comes with a wink. Hughes then pulls ahead to lead the way home, and Roy slackens his pace until he is at the tail of the group. To his curiosity, Briana falls back beside him.

"Hey. You're… you're gonna find them, aren't you?" And there's a vulnerability to her voice that he's never heard before. Roy rests a comforting hand on her shoulder, and she doesn't shake it off. Well, that makes _one_ successful communication with a teenager, out of… well, it feels like he's _never_ really succeeded with Fullmetal. That's part of why they're in this mess: because the Elrics hadn't trusted him enough to confide in him their plans before dropping off the face of the map. But he can't think about that. He has to focus on the task at hand, not mope about how he could have prevented this.

"Of course we are," he reassures her, even though the smile on his face feels hollow, at best. "I'm not leaving this city until I find them."


	6. DUPLICITY

[A/N]: I had to go back into the previous chapter and tweak some details to match what I'm writing in another fic which tells the stories of Fiona, Briana, and another OC of mine, Carter. I'm going to do my best to carry over the essential information about the Clellan sisters, but if your interest is piqued about them, you'll either have to wait until I post that other fic here, or you can read the posted chapters on my deviantART ( HitanTenshi).

This chapter contains dubiously-consensual and nonconsensual sex. You have been warned.

+.+.+.+.+.+.+.+.+

**DUPLICITY**

"Unbelievable."

"Excuse me?"

"You left our treasured human sacrifice in the hands of _that man_?"

"Yeah, so?"

She rubs her forehead with a gloved hand to stave off the threat of headache. What a moron he can be sometimes… Just where would their operations be without her guiding strategic hand? "_So_, who's to say he won't try to withhold the Elric boy from us when the time comes? That snake Boucher will do anything for money or power. In the worst ways, he reminds me of G—"

"All right, all right, I get it! I'll make sure he doesn't ship the brat to Aerugo or anything. So long as he's in Central on The Day, the doc will be able to snatch him, no-prob. And then what will it matter about Boucher? He'll be _dead_!"

"It'll have to do." Ah, yes, while she has him here… "By the way, the Flame Alchemist came into town yesterday. Seems like he's going to start nosing around. Don't be too obvious in deterring him, or else he's just going to get violent."

"Sure, whatever."

An exasperated sigh. "Why can't that man behave when it comes to the Elric brothers?"

+.+.+

The Hughes home had always been a happy place, a safe haven from the harsh world beyond, and now is no exception. Huddled around the modest coffee table on sofas sit Roy, Maes, Fiona, and herself (Briana having volunteered to play with Elicia and thus keep innocent ears away from the grim conversation). As per habit, she frequently spares her commander a glance. He clearly hadn't slept well, if at all, and the strain shows in his eyes. If they can't wrap this up quickly, his health might take a serious downturn. If there's one thing that makes Roy Mustang behave dangerously, it's worry over his subordinates.

"So," says Roy, "What _exactly_ do we know?"

Maes taps a finger on the map of Central City currently occupying the coffee table. "Your boy was last seen here, at Command, but that hardly tells us where he went from there. But—"

"—But," Fiona picks up, "We know he left in the company of General Raven."

"And that bears significance?" asks Riza, to which Fiona nods with a solemn frown.

"Bri's heard quite a bit of gossip about him, apparently. …The sort of gossip which immediately makes me worry why he was with Edward _alone_."

"Hold on!" Roy's face goes pale. "Are you suggesting that Raven _abducted_ him?"

"I think we should at least consider the possibility. Bri called him a number of things I shan't repeat."

"Lech. Pervert," prompts Maes.

True to form, Roy stands, fingers itching for action. "So how do we interrogate him on this?"

"We don't. He's high command; we'd be opening up a can of worms to pursue this up-front. Sit down, Roy. Now's not the time to be rash." A suggestion Roy follows with reluctance. "That said," Maes continues, "I've compiled a list of the bars and clubs he's gone to since the kid's disappearance. I say we divide and conquer, rustle up some more gossip, then compare notes back here."

"It's a place to start," Riza agrees. "How shall we split up?"

"I know a place to check for information, regardless of whether or not it's on your list," inputs Roy. Ah, yes. The Christmas Inn, run by Roy's foster mother (not that their connection is common knowledge by any standards). It's a logical place to look, since the colonel's honorary sisters are _excellent_ at gathering juicy tidbits from loose lips. "Lieutenant, you're with me."

"Of course, sir."

"Um—"

The voice has all four heads turning. Framed in the doorway is Briana, jaw and brow set in determination.

"I wanna come with you, too."

"But Bri," interjects the older sister, "it's a school d—"

"Fuck _school_! Ed and Al are _missing_! 'Sides, Marj'll cover for me."

The name rings a bell for Riza, thanks to prior talks with Fiona. Apparently, one Marjorie Ullman is Briana's bosom companion and schoolmate at the Armstrong Institute of Fine Arts. Sounds a little like what Rebecca had been to _her_ during their Academy days; it has a nostalgic smile flitting across her face.

Fiona sighs and rubs her temples — silent surrender. So, the younger sister continues to play rebel, it would seem. Still, there's something… _ulterior_ about Briana's request to accompany them in their search, but she can't put a finger on it.

"Okay, Bri, you can come." (Is Roy trying to stay on her good side by using her favored nickname?)

"Looks like it's me and Fiona, then." Standing, Maes briefly salutes Roy. "Right, then, Colonel. Let's move out."

+.+.+

It's a weird sensation: losing track of time. How long had he been here? Weeks? Months? Doesn't really matter, anyway. Nothing really matters anymore, except the fix — aptly named, because it really does _fix_ everything. He doesn't have to think or deal with problems, just float on this ocean of buzz, punctuated by the occasional cresting wave of climax. Faces glide in and out of focus in that haze — most of them people he's never seen before — but through it all is Boucher (actually, Ed's taken to calling him "_Doyle"_, when he's coherent enough to form words). There's a weird sort of comfort he gets from feeling that warm body next to him, wrapped around him, even pressed into him. Maybe that means, deep down, he'd been craving this kind of shameless human contact. Maybe he'd _wanted_ to break loose from his self-imposed punishment of isolation, of forbiddance from relational entanglement, all put there for the sake of enduring a fraction of the loneliness Al had. Maybe he's just weak and tired, and he wants someone to at least _pretend_ that they can love him. Doyle gives him that much. He, at least, makes sure Ed knows what a treasured valuable he is. That's _something_.

Al would be ashamed of him, but that doesn't matter. Al's not here. He's… where has he gone again? Oh, yeah. He's on a trip somewhere. Far away… because he'd left Ed, hadn't he? Left the brother who'd only ever failed him. Naturally. He's gone, and Ed has nothing to live for now except this immediate comfort of the fix, seasoned with the sweat of body against body. Clearly, sex and drugs are all they'd been cracked up to be.

+.+.+

"Roy!"

As soon as he's in the door, the ladies descend on him. It would be more flattering if most of them weren't practically his sisters. Several hugs and kisses later, he makes his way to the bartop (currently deserted, since it's mid-morning) and nods to Chris.

"Good to see you, Madam."

"Likewise." Sharp eyes scan his companions. "I see you finally brought Elizabeth around."

"Madam," Hawkeye answers with a smile.

Bri, however, is far from cheery. "This isn't a social visit," she huffs.

"It never hurts to be polite," Madam Christmas counters before returning attention to Roy. "Quite a little spitfire, isn't she?"

Out of the corner of his eye, Roy sees Briana tense, almost as if she'd just been slapped across the face. Strange… where had that come from? Had the madam's address insulted her somehow?

"Bri's a friend's sister. We're looking for someone, and she happens to know him about as well as any of us do, so she's helping out."

Penciled eyebrow lifts. "Define '_looking.'_"

"He's been missing for nearly a month. Name's Edward Elric. I brought a snapshot to leave with you," which he sets on the bartop at that moment.

"Mm… Quite a little stud."

"Don't let him hear you say that."

"Sorry, Roy-boy, doesn't spark any memories for me."

"Lemme see," chimes in Madeline. "Whoa, he _is_ a little cutie!"

"He really wouldn't like to be called '_little.'_"

Now it's Vanessa: "Oh, my gosh, he's adorable! And you captured him so _candidly_, Roy. What are you doing, taking pictures of a teenager, huh?"

"_I_ didn't take the picture; the other Vanessa—" (Warrant Officer Falman) "—has a scrapbooking hobby." This conversation is quickly veering off-target, and Bri clearly thinks the same, because she blows quite the fuse.

"_Who cares _if Ed is cute!? He could be locked up in some basement, having God knows what done to him, for all we know!"

That shuts everyone up, until one of the girls (she must be new, because Roy doesn't recognize her) sitting in a back corner speaks up: "Is this friend of yours… exotic-looking?"

An odd question; Roy has to think on it. Edward _does_ stick out a bit, he supposes, but he'd never thought of the kid as _exotic_. "How do you mean?"

"Well, it's just that I've heard some buzz about a cute thing with rare genes. It would match the timeframe."

"Anything more specific?" Hawkeye presses.

The woman looks directly at Briana, as if recognizing her. "…I heard Boucher has him."

The air in the room seems to thicken, but what really catches Roy's attention is the half-stifled gasp from the addressed Bri. Moments later, she's muttering a hasty apology and sprinting out the door.

"Hey! Bri—!"

The madam catches his arm before he can even slide out of his chair. "Let her go, Roy." When he faces her, there's an element of recognition in her characteristically stoic expression. "You, too, Elizabeth," she adds to a Hawkeye whose hand had been on the door.

"But—"

"Sit your ass down, Roy Mustang."

Consider him cowed. All the same— "Madam, just what is going on? Clearly, you understand something about this situation that I don't."

Chris shares a glance with the girls. "I don't think it's my place to spill that girl's secrets. You wanna know? You ask _her_. But, Scarlett there—" the one who had spoken before "—can tell you about Boucher, and I guarantee you won't like what you'll hear."

+.+.+

Honestly, her life had been complicated enough before Ed had gotten himself abducted. About a year and a half back, she'd met Marjorie at the stupid finishing school her snobbish grandmother had forced her to attend. The two girls had formed a rapport so fast and binding that Bri could only call it love, and that love had pulled her into a quagmire. Bri's godfather and benefactor had turned out to be a selfish piece of shit named Doyle Boucher, who had told Bri of an unsettled debt incurred by Marj's dead father, keeping her under his supposed _care_ until she could repay him in her father's place. In a desperate and possibly futile act of passion, Bri had taken the weight of this debt onto herself, splitting it in half between the two of them, which brings matters up to the now.

So, she'd think, after a whole year of this rigmarole of lies and disguises, she'd have known better! But, no, she'd refused to look the gift horse in the mouth and assumed that Boucher's giving her and Marj a break from their wild night-lives at his beck and call had been an innocent blessing. But _nothing_ is innocent with that spider.

As soon as that woman at the Christmas Inn had spoken up, Bri had recognized her. Scarlett had worked at Boucher's favored base of operations, The Butcher, as a bargirl, until she'd managed to slip away and find employment with Madam Christmas instead. Had it honestly taken a blatant tip-off from her for Bri to open her eyes!?

Down the familiar side-streets she all-but-runs, ignoring any and all looks sent her way. Not soon enough, she reaches the inconspicuous front door and wrenches it open.

"Where is he!?" Darting eyes land on one of Scarlett's friends. "Where's Boucher, Giselle?"

"In the back," she supplies, "but he's busy right now, so you really shouldn't—"

A warning unheeded. Bri charges down the hallway to Boucher's private suite and pounds on the door. "Open up, you bastard!"

Half a minute of non-stop whaling produces results. The lock clicks, and Boucher appears through the door crack. "Quit raisin' a ruckus, Spitfire. Whaddya want?"

"Where is he?"

"Who, precious?"

"Don't give me that! Where is Edwa—!?" But with a sweep of one arm, Boucher pulls her into the room and shuts the door.

"I told you to quit bein' so loud, dammit." His fingers card through her hair, scraping off the wig she wears in public and tugging on the revealed short spikes. "Do you _want_ me to get pissed at ya, Bri? Daddy doesn't like getting rough with ya."

The firm grip on her arm and hair is enough to curb her volume, but not her vitriol. "Go to hell. Now, where's Edward?"

"Oh, that's right. He's your sister's client, inn't he? How could I have forgotten?" But Boucher's tone tells that he hadn't forgotten at all. In fact, he squeezes her arm harshly, pinning her against the back of the door. "You hid that goldmine from me all this time, you little bitch. If you'd told me about him sooneh', maybe I'd have forgiven your and Marj's debt. But, who knows? I can be generous when I'm in a good mood, and, since you're here, you might as well cateh' to an idea I've got formin'."

That can't be anything good, but the lure of freeing Marj from this monster is one she can't ignore. "…I'm listening."

"Good girl. C'mere." Of course, he doesn't really give her an option as he drags her by the arm into the bedroom of the suite. "Ed, I brought ya a friend."

Bri tenses. What is she supposed to expect? What is Ed going to think when he sees her _here_!? A myriad of worst-case scenarios flutter around in her head… but none of them do justice to what she finds.

That isn't Ed. It can't be. Edward is fire and passion and _life_, and this… this person is dead, aside from breathing. Bri isn't even sure which shocks her more: the lack of light in Edward's golden eyes… or the fact that he's very much naked. White-hot anger curls in her stomach.

"Have you… _touched_ him?"

"That's a whole month I haven't touched _you_. Touched _Marj_. Aren't ya grateful?"

She could throw up. The mere idea of Boucher… of him and _Ed_…

"Hey, Ed, did ya hear me?" Boucher's grip shifts to Bri's shoulders long enough to shove her onto the bed. "I brought ya a friend."

As soon as Bri regains her balance, she freezes. Ed's so close, and though she's never thought of him — or any boy — in desirable light, she finds herself unnerved. So slowly that he seems not to move at all, Edward squints at her. His mouth opens, but his voice is almost unrecognizable: a gravelly whisper.

"…Bri?"

"That's right, Ed. Bri's come to see ya. Inn't that nice of heh'?"

"…yeah…"

"What have you done to him!?" She rests a shaking hand on Ed's forehead to find him hot and sweaty. "What's he on?"

"Heroin. Kid practically begged me to give him a steady supply, in exchange for _work_."

She can all too easily imagine the kind of work, and again she has to fight down nausea. "You're a fuckin' monster."

"One tries. So, ready to hear my proposal?"

She faces him; that should be sufficient affirmation.

"I'm thinkin' of havin' a little _party_. You know what I mean; you 'n' Marj've done 'em before."

If only she didn't know. On certain nights, Boucher makes the bar invite-only and provides special entertainment. Case in point, his two favorite little girls fucking in front of the guests. There is no fathoming how much she wants to squish this spider underfoot for how he has violated her relationship with Marj.

"I'm thinkin' it'd be fun to let Ed join in."

"You honestly think he's in any condition to put on a show for you?" she scoffs, already cringing at the idea. "He can't even _stand up_ like this, let alone fuck anybody."

"Ah, but that's the fun part." Boucher runs a long finger under her chin. "_You're_ gonna fuck _him_."

She feels her brain hitch. Boucher's elaboration of, "_You know I've got everythin' you'll need for it; plus, kid's taken in plenty of dicks by now, so he'll be fine with a toy or two,"_ doesn't sink in. She can't… _can't_ do that to Ed. Everything in her screams in outrage against it. Boucher seems to realize that, because he sits on the bed next to her.

"You look like you need persuadin', Spitfire." His tone should warn her of what's coming, but she's too in shock. "Strip."

"Wh…at?"

"You heard me. Do it, or I'll give _Marj_ the job of entertaining my guests. You know I will."

That she does. If there's anything Boucher is not, it's a giver of empty threats. Biting her lip, Bri pulls her sweater and tank top over her head, kicks off her boots and socks, and shimmies out of her leggings.

"Mm… are you blossomin' a little?" Already Boucher's greedy hands are on her, fondling her small breasts as he presses against her back, hot breath on her neck.

"Dunno." It takes all of her willpower not to squirm as one of his hands slides down between her legs.

"That didn't sound very respectful, Spitfire. You'll hurt Daddy's feelings."

"_What_ feelings?" Snark punished with three fingers rammed into her.

"How about we get some practice in for the show? Wouldn't want you two to look awkward with each other. For starters… you'd best suck him to get him in the mood."

He continues to tease her as she shifts to get closer to Ed, her chest so tight that the air burns in her lungs. This isn't fair, not to her or Ed or anyone! But the world is never fair, is it? It had taken her and Fiona's brother, Corben; it had taken Ed's arm and leg and Alphonse's body. Take and take and take, until now… it looks like the never-ending drain has broken even bull-headed Edward Elric. That's a blow she doesn't want to face. Perhaps that's why she doesn't give any more lip as she leans over him.

How she wishes she could block out the sounds Ed makes as she touches him. She feels every tremor that runs through his frame (it's a little scary how much thinner he is), and she pulls away as soon as possible. Even so, bile builds in her gut at how easily he'd gotten aroused, even when he's slammed. Had Boucher trained Ed the way he'd trained Marj and Bri? (Even now, even though she hates the man with every fiber of her being, his touch makes her warm and wet.) It seems all too likely, and her heart cries out on Ed's behalf.

"Good girl," Boucher prompts, finally removing his fingers from her and licking them. She's seen that look in his eyes plenty of times: bastard's hungry for sex. She can already picture him joining in once he's got the two of them situated to his liking. He smiles at her and gives an encouraging little nod. "Don't just sit there, Spitfire. Ride him."


	7. INTERVENTION

[A/N]: Let me reassure you that the OCs aren't taking over this fic. There's been a swell in their involvement in recent chapters, but attention and POV will mostly revert to the canon characters after this chapter. I just… have a lot of FMA OCs and they are all interconnected (I love world-building!), so it was going to be tough to use Doyle as a major villain without incorporating some of the OCs who help show what a piece of scum he is.

This chapter contains nonconsensual sex. You have been warned.

+.+.+.+.+.+.+.+.+

**INTERVENTION**

"What do you mean, you let her run off?"

"Fi, please calm down."

"Calm down!?" Usually, this would be a rational request, and one with which Fiona would be all-too-willing to comply. If it involves Briana, however, all bets are off. "My little sister is about as rash and stubborn as Edward! God knows what foolhardy things she might try! What if _she_ goes missing, too!?" Burying her face in her hands, Fi sinks onto the nearest sofa and struggles to get a hold of herself. Riza — bless her —takes a seat next to her and rubs her upper back.

"C'mon, Fiona," consoles Maes from her other side, "Bri's a smart cookie. I don't think she'd try anything that would put her at too much risk. The best thing you can do is wait for her, yes?"

Bless Maes Hughes as well. Though he can be a joker at times, he also serves as an irreplaceable voice of reason, even to her.

"Hughes is right," inputs Roy. "I don't think my informants would have so insisted that we not chase her down if they thought she couldn't handle what she was getting into."

Fiona sighs, and the panic subsides by a fraction. "I'll have to take your word on that, Roy. It's just… if anything were to happen to her…"

The doorbell jingles, and they can all hear Gracia answer. Relief floods Fiona at the familiar sound of her sister's voice, and she stands in anticipation. What she doesn't expect is for Bri to shuffle into the room, much subdued — is she _wincing_?

"Darling, you had me scared to death!" In a nervous flutter, Fi grips her little sister in a tight hug, to which Bri responds with an awkward pat on the back.

"Shit, Fi, it isn't even 10 o'clock yet. Now, will you quit choking me?"

Since Bri's tone indicates that this is no time to coddle, Fiona takes a reluctant step back, but as she moves, she detects a strange odor around her sister. Perhaps it's just the general musk of certain parts of the city, but… it gives her an uneasy feeling. Seemingly unconcerned by this, Bri heads straight for Roy, stopping just short of him.

"I found Ed."

That gets everyone on their feet.

"How did you—?"

"Doesn't matter how," she cuts Roy off. "Point is, I can get him away from Boucher, but I'll need your help. …And we'll need a doctor you can trust."

"Is Edward hurt?" asks Riza.

"Not so much _hurt_ as heavily drugged. I don't know how badly he'll react to being cut off from that supply, so it's best to be prepared."

Fiona's stomach is slowly turning to lead. Bri may claim that it doesn't matter how she'd found this out, but it does matter! She's only fourteen, the same as Edward — how can she think she's equipped to retrieve him!?

"I know a doctor to ask," muses Roy, "and I don't think he'll refuse if a kid's life is at stake." The colonel puts a hand on Bri's shoulder (and does she flinch for just a moment?). "Are you sure you can get him out?"

"Positive."

"All right."

As Bri fills the soldiers in on the exact where and when, Fiona watches from a ways back. Something is definitely off with her sister. Certain movements, like bending over or straightening, seem to cause her pain, as if she's sore. Sitting also seems to be giving her trouble. She's playing it off, but she _had_ gotten hurt looking for Ed. Unacceptable. After this rescue operation is over, Fiona is going to have words with her sibling.

+.+.+

As the haze of drug-induced euphoria fizzles away, Edward begins to wonder: why had Bri come to see him? They'd become friends as part of Ms. Clellan's therapy attempts, but that doesn't explain how she'd found out where he was. And… what had happened after she'd visited? Or, rather, during? He remembers having sex with someone… that wouldn't have been Bri, would it? No, Doyle had been there, so it had probably been him. All the same, curiosity which would have driven the previous Edward Elric up a wall until he'd found the answer now simply scratches at the door of his mind, like a dog begging to be let inside.

"Ed."

Doyle's voice. He musters up a grunt in response.

"Bri's back. You two are gonna have some fun, okay?"

Another grunt.

"Good boy. Now, if you c'mere and gimme your mouth, I'll give you another fix. How's that sound?"

It sounds wonderful, and he obeys as quickly as he can, crawling on all trembling fours to the edge of the bed. Learning to use his throat for this had been painful at first, but he's gotten used to it. Anything for the fix.

As soon as the fresh dose has him tingling, Edward lays down again, ready to go back to sleep.

"Not yet, my little goldmine. You've got to go play with Bri, remembeh'?"

Ed's groan is more like a whine of protest this time. He doesn't want to go anywhere or do anything. Just let him lie here in this warm buzz and dissolve… Unfortunately, that's not an option. With effort, Doyle eases him into what might be clothes — all he feels are strips of leather here and there. In a more rational corner of his mind, Ed's glad there isn't a mirror in here, as something tells him he looks far worse now than he would have even before Al had left.

"All right, kiddo. On your feet. I'll help ya, 'kay?"

He tries, but Doyle virtually ends up carrying him down the hall. When had been the last time he'd left that suite? It's difficult to recall. Maybe he doesn't even _want_ to recall. Ed can hear music and laughter bounce around him, and the air becomes thick and warm, thanks to the heat of surrounding bodies (he doesn't care to count how many other people are there).

"Who…?" Doyle can probably only hear him because he's hunched over to keep Ed upright.

"They've come to see you, Ed. You're very popular. They're going to watch you and Bri."

Something about that realization sets him off. All of a sudden, Ed feels his weariness take a backseat. His heartrate rockets, and he begins to quake in earnest.

"Calm down. You'll do fine. Bri's gonna take good care of you."

He doesn't understand. What's going on here? Why is Bri involved? What are they going to do that these people would come here to watch it!?

"She's right there, see?"

He does see, and he wishes that he didn't. He hadn't realized it before, but Bri's hair is much shorter than it had been the last time he'd seen her at her sister's clinic — if only _that_ were the most drastic change! Briana is wearing very little, and what she _is_ wearing covers nothing practical. Ed's breathing stutters, and his limbs lock up. One glance down at his own getup confirms more or less what he's expected to do.

"I… can't…"

"What's that?"

"I can't… not like this… not with Bri, I—"

Doyle pulls him to one side, using the nearest wall as a brace so he can grab Ed's face and force the boy to meet his gaze. "You're gonna do what I say to do. That was what we agreed, wasn't it?"

Ed nods, but feels no relief. If anything, his agitation increases. "Wh… why isn't the fix working?"

"Oh, it's working. This is a side-effect — you should've experienced this several times before." (Well, certainly not that Ed can recall, but his memory _has_ been shoddy lately.) "I wasn't countin' on it, but it's actually a more excitin' show if you're somewhat cohesive."

"But—"

"No buts, Ed. Bri practiced on ya last night when you were high as heaven, so don't panic so much. All you gotta do is follow her lead."

They'd already… wait, so it _hadn't_ been Doyle who'd made him moan like he had last night? Ed feels his face grow hot.

"You're awful cute when you blush, kid, but now's not the time to freeze up. Oi! Bri!" A beckon later, she's made her way to them. (An Ed in days past would be pissed at how much taller than him those heeled boots make her.) "I'm passin' him off t'you now, got it? Don't fuck up."

"Yeah, yeah." But she hisses, "bastard," as soon as Doyle has shifted Ed's weight around her shoulders and slipped into the throng.

"Bri… what's going on?"

She must not have picked up on his increase in consciousness, because she jolts a little. "Um… shit, that's a long story, Ed, and I don't think now's the time to go into it." Moving slowly, she's able to haul him back toward the center of the room, where a little raised platform has been set up in a spotlight. "Short version? Boucher's got me working for him by way of blackmail."

"Funny… that's kinda how I got here, too." As they near the bright light, Ed finds it harder to focus on the faces of the small crowd gathered around the edges of the room. But maybe it's better that way. "So, are we supposed to… uh…"

He can feel her tense. "Yeah… I can't apologize enough for this. I just… I need you to trust me that it'll be worth it… okay?"

Trust… feels like it's been a while since he's flexed that emotional muscle. Even before his downspin, trust had never come easily to him. The thing about it is that it tends to lead to disappointment, even betrayal. So, really… why bother? But the words, "_Okay. I trust you,"_ tumble out all the same, albeit much easier said than believed as she guides him up onto the platform and sits him on a bench. Just before she steps away, however, she whispers to him.

"Then do _exactly_ as I say. It'll make things better for you."

He isn't sure what to make of that, but has no chance to reply. The uncertainty of it all starts crashing down around him, much like it had that first time with Doyle. His brain quickly follows the pattern and parades _Don't think about it, don't think about it, don't think about it_, across the forefront of his mind. Even so, he hears a catcall or two. Then Doyle stands up and says something Ed doesn't listen to, the remainders of his attention having fixated on Bri. She currently stands in front of a little table, like what doctors set their operating tools on, but Ed could swear he sees a riding crop, something that looks like a freakish bridle, and… he really doesn't want to know what those plastic tubular things are for. Yes, Ed's grown accustomed to, even _appreciative of_ sex, but there's a massive difference between what Doyle's had him doing for the past however-long and _this_. Everyone's looking at him — at his scars, his automail — and he can't help but feel that, at any moment, someone is going to laugh. And why shouldn't they? Doyle'd kept him because of some stupid rare breeding from a father Ed doesn't even own up to having. Even if he'd had anything resembling good looks before (he'd certainly bragged to such possibilities for show), he must surely be some shriveled, shaking thing now, regardless of Doyle still calling him cute. Bri shouldn't have to do something like this with him (she shouldn't have to do something like this at all, but that's a separate issue).

As he mulls over this, Bri returns with a wide strip of black cloth in hand. Something about her expression seems hardened, like she's put on a mask. Of course: this is a show. They have parts to play; Bri's just more comfortable slipping into hers. So, when she leans toward him, he instinctively leans back, nearly falling off the bench as he does so. That does trigger a laugh from an onlooker, and Ed knows his face is red again.

"Come here, Ed." Why does that tone make him feel like a scolded child? "I said, come here."

"Ooh, stubborn one," someone jeers.

"Teach him his place!" shouts another.

As Ed's eyes dart nervously around the room, trying to locate the sources, Bri secures a grip on the front of his outfit (if it can even be called a front) and tugs him to the end of the bench, where she promptly sits on his lap. Aaaand then all Ed can think about is how her chest is pressing against his chest and her hips against his hips and—

"Look at that. You're getting excited already."

Is he? Oh, shit, it seems so. "I'm s-sorry—"

"Did I say you could speak, Ed? Well?"

Baffled, he opens his mouth, but, thinking better of it, settles for shaking his head.

"That's better. Still, I'd better make sure you don't speak out of turn again."

Oh. So _that's_ what the bridle-like device is for. Almost as soon as Bri has popped the little ball between his teeth and secured the attached harness in place, she returns to the matter of the cloth.

"What do you think? Blindfold or no blindfold?" She seems to be looking directly at someone in the audience, but he can't make out—

"Blindfold," prompts Doyle.

Edward's going to call it a blessing that, about the same time as his world goes dark, the familiar haze finally wins out, dragging his senses down into the comforting murk.

+.+.+

Make this a memory she won't be able to suppress quickly enough. Ed seems to zone out early on, and that's probably for the best, especially since he mewls enough that no one can tell how high he is. She goes through the checklist of toys and positions Boucher had planned out, and, by the end of it, Ed's a mess: twitching and splattered with his own release. Thankfully, Boucher redirects attention elsewhere with a simple off-switch of the spotlight, and while the throng shuffles to the bar, he practically skips over to the pair of them.

"Not bad, Spitfire. For a performance like that, maybe I'll shave off a good chunk of that debt."

"You're welcome," she grumbles with zero authenticity, but that doesn't faze the proprietor one bit.

"I've got this mob to corral, so how's about you clean him up?"

"Sure." Somehow, she manages to keep any excitement from slipping in there, because this is just the opening she'd been hoping for. Tucking her long sweater under one arm, Bri carefully supports a very woozy Ed back to Boucher's suite. Once inside, however, her movements become sharp and swift.

Dumping Ed on the couch, she locks the door and pushes the nearest pieces of furniture in front of it. Then it's a quick wipedown for the two of them using the available bedsheet, and one of Boucher's shirts subsequently pulled over Ed's head. Once Bri likewise dons her sweater, she goes on the hunt. Marj had told her about an emergency tunnel Boucher had built when he'd set up shop here, and the entrance has to be here! (With the piece of shit Boucher is, he'd only care about ensuring his own escape.) Soon enough, the search rewards her with a trapdoor hidden under a rug.

"Hang on, Ed." He might not even hear her, but she feels better saying it as she wrenches their exit open. "We're gonna get you out of here."

+.+.+

As promised, Roy had secured a doctor. Knox had been an associate back in Ishval — somehow, a history like that makes asking favors easier. Though Knox had been unable to come with them on this stakeout, he'd coughed up his address and told Roy to bring the patient there directly. It'll have to do.

The long minutes pass uneasily as he, Hawkeye, and Hughes, sit in this dusty warehouse around a trapdoor. Several times, he mutters something about storming into this club himself and setting fire to people's hair until someone confesses, but Hawkeye talks him down every time. Part of the whole reason they'd pursued Bri's plan is due to information Hughes had procured: apparently, someone high up the chain of command had granted this piece of scum immunity from arrest, which leaves their hands, as military personnel, largely tied — even if Roy and Hawkeye _are_ on leave. In any case, Roy charging the place and instantiating spontaneous combustion wouldn't help anything.

Still, the rattle of movement under that trapdoor doesn't come nearly soon enough. He springs on the sound and throws open the entrance, Hawkeye and Hughes wielding their handguns just in case.

"Little help?" There's… much to be said about Bri's appearance, but it'll have to be said later. There, hanging like a dead man from one arm wrapped around the girl's shoulders, is—

"Edward!" The lieutenant promptly drops into the tunnel and relieves Briana of her burden. With one hand under each of Ed's armpits, she hoists the boy up so Hughes can haul him out completely. With some fuss from Bri, Hawkeye does the same for her, leaving Roy to catch her.

Mm, on second thought, maybe he _should_ address her condition now. He'd thought he recognized that scent last night, but it's unmistakable now. Whatever she's been up to, whatever she's gone through to bring Ed to them, it's nothing a girl her age should have to endure. But he's not her father or her brother, so does he really have any right? At least in Ed's case, Roy is something of a commanding officer, even if the brat does _technically_ report to the Führer… oh wait, Ed had quit. But that shouldn't invalidate his right to intervene for the boy's well-being, so… why not for the girl's, too?

"Go," he commands, nodding at the warehouse door to send Hawkeye and Hughes on their way to Knox's. "We'll catch up."

"W-we will?" She's no doubt winded from dragging a boy her size with two metal limbs for more than a block.

"Briana, we need to talk."

He can feel her tense under his light grip on her shoulders. "Uh… we do?"

"Yes." As soon as they two are alone, Roy continues, "I know there's something going on with you and this Boucher person. It's the one way your actions make sense. Feel like telling me?"

"…No."

No surprise there. "Why not?"

"Because I can't talk about it."

"Can't or won't?" As she chews on his prompt, Roy does his best to coax the truth out of her. "You just helped Ed get away from him; now, let me help you."

Again he sees that rare vulnerability behind her eyes. However reluctant she may be, he's won. "He was going to kill Fi if I didn't, and hurt Marj."

"Your friend?"

She nods.

"Where is she now?"

"At the school dorm, I guess."

"All right; here's what I want you to do: go get Marj, and then the two of you are to go directly to the Christmas Inn. You remember where that is?"

"I knew before I went with you, stupid."

"All the better." (He'll let the jab at his intelligence slide.) "And I'll see to it that your sister is kept safe, okay?"

"…You better."

"I promise. Off you go."

Just before she reaches the warehouse door, however, Roy thinks of a final point he ought to leave with her. "Bri!" She pauses. "You don't have to hide anymore, hear me? Not from Fiona or Ed, or anyone, really. And… short hair suits you."

She scoffs at that last attempt at flattery, but gives him a brief smile all the same before ducking out into the dark street.

+.+.+

His little party had been quite a success, evidenced by the thick stack of green he now thumbs through. After shelling out paltry bonuses to the staff, it time to go lock these beauties up. Maybe his little Xerxian will have recovered enough from that amusing ordeal to give him some before they turn in.

At least, that's what he's expecting, until the door doesn't yield to him. He has a key on him, but, even after retracting the deadbolt, regular force has no effect. Already, his brain kicks into high gear. Had Ed jammed up the door in a fit after the show? Mmm, no, he'd still be too wasted, surely. Which leaves one schemer coming quickly to mind. Is this her protest against her little friend's treatment?

Only with many thumping charges does Doyle gain entry, ready to grab those two brats by the hair and make them beg forgiveness. Instead, he finds the suite quite deserted. Furniture has been shifted to and fro, as if a tornado had swept into the room for a mere second before dissipating. And what draws his attention all-too-quickly is the uncovered trapdoor.

"That little bitch."


	8. VOLATILITY

[A/N]: I touched on this in the previous chapter, but I want to make it clear so that there is less confusion. Opiates can cause swings between a groggy state and a hyper state, so I've tried to express that in Ed's clarity of speech and thought.

This chapter contains mentions of drug use and nonconsensual sex. You have been warned.

+.+.+.+.+.+.+.+.+

**VOLATILITY**

_He looks even smaller than usual._ That's the first thing Riza had thought upon seeing Edward slung across Briana's shoulders. Even now, sparing glances to her left where Hughes has the boy cradled against his shoulder, she can't help but think it. Maybe it's the clear signs of lost weight, or maybe it's the oversized shirt, but the young blond is much transformed, and not at all for the better.

She drives as quickly as an inconspicuous route to Dr. Knox's can allow, and even so, she feels like they're wasting valuable time. Edward needs _help_; anyone can see it! Any moment where that isn't being addressed is a moment ill-spent. Perhaps she's getting too absorbed in his well-being. Perhaps she's too attached. But what have she and Roy been fighting for since Ishval if not a better future for those who will follow them? If she isn't protecting Edward and those like him, then what good has she done?

Maybe Maes understands her feelings on the matter; the arms which absorb any shock of jostling car are clearly those of a father. She catches glimpses of him smoothing the tangled hair and supporting the diminished shoulders. How long has it been, she has to wonder, since someone had done such things for Edward? His own father had abandoned him, his younger brother, and their mother, and look where that had landed him. That's why Edward is always reluctant to ask for help, especially from the colonel: that trust in figures of authority, of protection and respect, had long since been broken. In some ways, she knows that pain of loneliness, of rejection. Her own paternal relationship had been far from ideal (she can almost feel the tattoo upon her back sting, just thinking about it) — but even so, Riza earnestly hopes that Edward will not make this more difficult for them to help him.

Brakes bring them to a rattling halt in front of the modest home bearing Knox's address, and the soldiers move quickly to bear their charge inside. Hawkeye's rap on the door is firm, but restrained — no need to bring nosy neighbors to their windows — and, soon enough, the doctor appears. She had met him once in Ishval, but they hadn't spoken at any length. Maybe he doesn't recognize her at all.

"The colonel sent us."

"Did he…" Knox's eyes are that of a dead man, void of drive or spark, but something seems to stir in them all the same as they rest upon the pitiful bundle of Edward in Maes's arms. "Well, bring him in, then. I'll take a look."

The change in air is almost immediate upon entering the house. Piles of litter and clutter occupy nearly every corner, making the space feel packed — almost as if that can make up for the obvious absence. She'd heard from Roy that Knox had a family, and yet the stagnation before her speaks to the opposite. Had Ishval torn his life apart as it had so many others?

At Knox's instruction, Maes sets Edward down on a double bed stripped to the sheet, but no sooner has he done so than the doctor shoos both soldiers from the room so he can work in peace. They entertain silence for several minutes, until Maes speaks.

"Did you see what he was wearing?"

"…A shirt much too big for him?"

"Other than that."

She ponders. "No. Why?"

Maes sighs and pulls a cloth from his jacket pocket to wipe his glasses. "Well… let's just say it makes me wanna do something rash and violent to the bastard what did this to him."

"Careful. The colonel depends on you to be the sensible one in a crisis."

"I think that makes two of us." And he sends her a soft smile, which she returns. But the gentle moment doesn't last. With the slam of opened door and the stomp of sudden footfalls, Knox appears, his face red with anger.

"Just what the hell have you gotten me into? Mustang said the kid might be hurt, but he didn't mention the part where he'd been _raped_! And I swear to God that he's _high_! So, just what—"

"We didn't know what condition we'd find him in," Maes interjects. "He was being held hostage."

"What is this, bust of a human trafficking ring?"

"If only we _could_ bust the son of a bitch."

"Damn…" Running a hand through greying hair, Knox turns to Riza. "When's Mustang getting here?"

"Soon, I'd imagine. He had something to wrap up."

A grumpy snort. "Well, first things first: kid needs a bath, but if he starts going ballistic without his drugs, it'd help if someone he knows is in the room."

She nods. "I'll do whatever I can."

"Lieutenant Colonel, if you go upstairs, you should be able to find some clothes in the bottom drawer of a dresser in the far room. They'll be big on this kid, but it'll be a hell of a lot better than what he's got now."

"Right." Maes pivots and sets off, leaving Riza to follow Knox into the bedroom.

The shirt Ed had been wearing is now draped over him like a thin blanket as he lies on his left side. Still asleep, which may be a blessing. As Knox goes into the adjacent bathroom to start water running, she kneels by the bed and gathers his hands in hers. It's curious; clearly, his captor hadn't fed him properly, and yet both automail and skin show dedicated attention. But no amount of lotion can hide the callouses weathered into the boy's palm. She has her fair share of those, too.

It's rare to see him so still, and the opportunity grants her insight. The circles under Edward's eyes are hauntingly pronounced — probably a side effect of drug use — but what catches her attention with equal concern are the veritable thicket of scars on his left arm. The puncture marks of needles weave in and out of the white lines, using every inch of previously-unmarred skin. Just how much had Ed been bottling up before he'd abandoned the military? For how long had he suffered alone, all because he'd been unable to turn to her and the colonel, to lean on them and confide in them? She feels her chest constrict with guilt. She should have intervened long ago. Edward had always seemed to have an easier time talking to her than to any of the men on the team; why hadn't she put that to use in helping him grow?

As she mulls over all of this, Ed's flesh fingers slowly close around her hand. He groans with fluttering eyes, and Riza steels herself, unsure of what level of cohesion — if any — she'll find in the intoxicated boy. Gently, she tests the air with conversation:

"Edward? Can you hear me?"

He stirs in response, until cracks of familiar golden eyes peer at her from between scrunched lids. The dullness there reminds her of what she'd seen in Knox, and that frightens her.

"L..ieutenant?"

"Yes. I'm right here, Ed."

"Have you… come to see me?"

"Mm-hmm. We were worried about you and Al."

She could swear that he flinches, as if hearing his brother's name causes him pain. But why would that be? Before she can ask, the boy makes to sit up, a hazy grin hovering on his unfocused face.

"So you… came to see me." A quick peek under his makeshift blanket has that eerie smile broadening. "Good thing I'm… already naked."

She feels sick. "Edward! No, that isn't—" With one hand ensuring that the shirt isn't going anywhere, Riza tries to lock eyes with his. "The colonel and I came to _help_ you. To _rescue_ you."

Clearly, he doesn't understand fully, but he does seem to register the fact that his surroundings are different. "Wh…where's Doyle?"

"Not here. You're _safe_ now, Ed. He won't hurt you any more."

Rather than show any kind of relief, the young alchemist looks at her with eyes widened by slowly-dawning horror. "You… took me away? You… the colonel…" As comprehension sinks in, Ed's breathing rate increases drastically, bordering on hyperventilation. "N-no… No, why w-would you… don't want…"

"Please, try to calm down." But he smacks at her hand when she brings it close.

"**No! Take me back! I d-don't want you here! I don't want the c-colonel here! Where is he!? S-send him away!**"

Naturally, the shrieking brings Knox back to the bedroom. "'The hell is it now!?"

"He's panicking, like you said!" Riza climbs onto the bed and manages to grab hold of Ed's wrists before he can flail much more. "Ed, _please_! We're just trying to help you!"

"**Fuck you! F-fuck the colonel! Let me go! Doyle!**"

"Damn, I'll grab some morphine from my bag — just hold him down until then!"

"Understood."

She continues to shush him, but he only struggles more loudly. Why on earth would he react this way? What about the thought of Roy's presence had set him off? Shame? Fear of rejection? The latter seems more likely. Of course: Ed's just plain scared. But that only proves that he cares more about Roy's opinion of him that he's ever let on. She would hug the poor child if he wouldn't try to claw up her face for it.

Speaking of the colonel, when Knox returns with a capped syringe in hand, that's exactly who's at his heels. To her surprise, however, Edward freezes at the sight of him, merely trembling where before he had thrashed. But every vestige of color drains from his face, as if he's about to faint.

"Get him to the bathroom," Knox barks. "Kid's gonna puke."

Right on cue, Ed convulses sharply. Riza hauls him as quickly as she can, but Roy comes along the other side to assist. Still, thinking ahead to how Ed may react next, Riza claims the duty of holding back the tangle of golden hair.

"What happened?"

"He's not happy to see us," she informs. "You especially."

"Then he's being stupid and childish," Roy retorts. Hopefully, Edward's too busy vomiting to overhear that bit.

After several long minutes, the convulsions seem to settle. At the very least, Ed stops coughing up watery sick. Tentatively, Riza helps him straighten.

"Do you feel any better now?" It seems a good sign that he doesn't swing at her when she wipes his face with toilet paper, but he doesn't make any effort to reply.

But Roy's, "Are you all right, Fullmetal?" definitely has an effect. He shrinks away from the colonel's hand on his shoulder, suddenly pressing against Riza — _clinging_ to her, in fact.

"S-s-send him away." An entreaty barely audible.

"I'm not going to do that, Ed," is the only answer she can give him, followed by a sympathetic frown to the shunned party.

"Don't be like that, Fullmetal. It's not like I'm going to hurt you."

"Go away."

If there's one thing Riza knows Roy doesn't take well, it's having his commands ignored. Without warning, he grabs Ed by the upper arms and pulls him away from Riza, setting off a fresh round of unintelligible screams from the boy.

"Colonel, wha—?"

"Look at me, Fullmetal! Just what the hell has gotten into you!?"

"An opiate."

"This is hardly the time for medical jokes, Knox!"

"Who said I was joking? Kid's probably been on morphine or heroin, and neither one of those is something you want to risk going cold turkey from." At which point Knox holds up the syringe.

"You want to give him _more_ drugs!?"

"Oh, I'm sorry, would you rather he _die_!? Mind your own damn business and let me doctor! Isn't that why you got me involved in this mess in the first place!?"

In the midst of this argument, Riza scoots across the tile floor to where Ed tugs against Roy's firm grip, wailing. With gentle hands on his shoulders, she speaks softly, trying to calm him.

"It's all right, Edward. Doctor Knox is going to give you something. You're going to be fine."

Though her voice seems to have little effect, Ed's attention hones in on the morphine in Knox's hand, and he quiets all the same.

"Colonel," Riza asks, meeting Roy's gaze, "please, let me handle him. It'll be easier on all of us."

She can see the guilt in his eyes, the silent plea that he be given responsibility for the child he feels like he's failed, but he relinquishes his hold. What neither soldier expects, however, is for Ed to dart across the small bathroom and latch onto Knox, like a kitten trying to claw its way up a pant leg.

"What the—!?"

"Give it to me! I need it!" Even as Riza and Roy move to pull him off of the doctor, Edward continues to babble with wide, crazed eyes. "Please! I'll do anything! What do you want? How do you want me?"

"**Mustang, for God's sake!**"

+.+.+

He'd tried to prepare himself for what it'd be like… for what Ed would be like. Hadn't worked, though. The cab ride from the warehouse district to Knox's neighborhood hadn't been nearly enough time to process what state the boy would be in, after being a captive in a place like that. But as he and Hawkeye pry the frenzied child away from Knox, as he hears Edward ramble about sexual favors that he'd performed for the sake of a fix, he begins to understand. And he begins to think he might be the next one to puke into Knox's toilet.

By some miracle, they hold him still long enough for Knox to stick Ed in the lower right thigh, explaining that doing so will let the morphine filter more slowly through the boy's body and both dilute and prolong the effects. Roy's just trying not to notice how Fullmetal reacts to the injection the way most people would to a handjob.

Hughes joins them moments later, his arms full of wrinkly clothes. Immediately, Roy passes along to him and Hawkeye the essentials of Briana's situation and tasks them with guarding Fiona, even if they have to confine her to the Hughes household. Before leaving, however, Hawkeye takes him aside.

"Colonel, are you sure _you_ don't want to guard Fiona?"

"What do you mean?"

"It's just…" and she glances to where Knox is checking Edward's pulse and reflexes. "You don't have to punish yourself. It isn't your fault this happened."

"Fullmetal seems to think differently."

"That's not it, sir. He's…" She sighs. "He's terrified of you."

"Childish."

"He _is_ a child, which _you_ seem only to remember when it's _convenient_ for you."

He hadn't expected her to snap at him, but consider his attention gotten. "I know he's a child. I've just tried to go along with his express wishes not to be treated like one."

"And you think he hasn't seen through that? He feels patronized by you. He feels…" But she cuts off and shakes her head. "No, it's better that you figure it out for yourself."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Forget I said anything." And is she _smiling_ a little? "Well, best of luck to you, sir."

Just what's with _that_ cryptic response? But she's out the door before he can protest. With little else he can do, Roy turns to Knox.

"So," says the doctor, as if sensing that Roy's attention is on him, "you're dead-set on camping out here and looking after this kid?"

"I am."

"Good." Knox stands and, grabbing a towel from a nearby chair, hands it to Roy. "You can get him bathed and clothed." Before Roy can come up with any kind of protest, the older man continues, "If I'm gonna have to supply this kid with morphine while I ween him off of it, then I need to shore up my supply, write a false prescription if need be." A sharp glare. "You'd better take responsibility if this goes south, Mustang. I'm sticking my neck out for you here."

"You have my word."

The doctor snorts and heads for the door. "For whatever that's worth."

To bat back the uneasy stillness that weighs on the bedroom in Knox's absence, Roy looks down at his charge, propped up in the nearest corner with a shirt draped over his otherwise naked body, and muses aloud, "I guess he has a point."

Ed, preoccupied with his high, says nothing.

+.+.+

There's something warm against his skin. Wet. Sloshing sounds tickle his ears beyond the general haze, which is lighter than usual. Had Doyle backed off on the potency of the fix to rein him in? That's mean. But back to his surroundings: he seems to be in a tub, and someone is wiping him down with a damp cloth. Had Doyle come for him, taken him back to the safe and familiar where he doesn't have to think? With squinting eyes adjusting to the bright light of a bathroom, he tries to thank his selfish benefactor with a kiss. (Doyle likes kisses.)

But it's definitely not Doyle he finds. Doyle smells like wine and olives and cigarette smoke, but this person is wearing cologne. Ed picks out pepper, nutmeg, and a hint of vanilla from the overall scent of spice. Somehow familiar, but he isn't left wondering for long, because his sloppy (and failed) attempt to kiss this person produces an immediate reaction.

"Careful, Fullmetal. Last thing I need is you hitting your head from swooning."

The colonel? But why? _Why_ is he still here? It doesn't make any sense, unless…

"Are you… gonna screw me?"

"Don't be absurd." Propping Ed's heavy head against his shoulder, Mustang hands him the washcloth. "If you're awake enough to suggest things like that, you can clean yourself."

He doesn't have the energy to fight back. "Where… haven't you yet?"

"Just your automail."

Does that mean Mustang had _touched_ him? The question passes through his mind before he can stop it — pure habit. Doyle would also use a bath as an _opportunity_. Obviously, this situation wouldn't have been the same as receiving attention from Doyle, but it would have been _something_. With increasingly lazy motions, he drags the cloth along his metal limbs, until finally the colonel reclaims the task in order to get a move on. Ed really doesn't understand why, as Mustang lifts him from the tub and wraps him in a large towel, he's so gentle. He isn't military anymore; what happens to him shouldn't matter one bit to the ever-ambitious Colonel Mustang. And yet, here he is. Hawkeye had said they'd come because they'd been worried about him… about Al.

Ah, that's it. They're here about _Al_. Kind, compassionate, lovable Al. Definitely worth more fuss than uncooperative, bratty, _un_lovable Ed. In which case… they'll be disappointed, because Al is gone. Before Ed even realizes it, he's begun to tremble.

"Are you cold? We'll get you into some clothes, once you're dried off."

Ed shakes his head. Bile laps at his insides, and, with unsteady vision, he searches for the toilet. Mustang seems to get the message and holds Ed up as he deals with a fresh wave of nausea. Watching the putrid sick spiral away down the U-bend, Ed finds himself thinking that _he's_ like that. Maybe he could have been useful at some point, like food is for energy, but now he's just waste to be thrown away. Now… surely all that he's good for is what Doyle had taught him.

Too wobbly to support his own weight, Ed ends up carried by the colonel to the bed he'd woken up in before. It's wide enough for two people, so, when set down, Ed asks again, just to be sure: "Are you gonna screw me?"

"Of course not." He seems more disturbed by the question this time. "Why are you even asking me that?"

"Because… Doyle only took care of me so I'd owe him."

"Well, I'm not Doyle Boucher."

"He… fucked me a lot."

"I don't want to hear about it, Fullmetal."

With effort, the colonel worms him into an undershirt and a pair of boxers. Oh, Mustang tries to put more on him, but every time, Ed fumbles his way through the buttons and zippers and kicks the damn things off. There's no point to wearing more clothes — at least, there hadn't been, for the past… however long. Speaking of…

"How long?"

The colonel had been folding the unused clothes so that the stack wouldn't topple, but he pauses at the question. "How long were you missing? About a month."

It had felt so much longer. It had felt like years since he'd seen Al, heard his voice, felt any kind of certainty that he could keep his promise to his little brother. Somehow, hearing that it had only been a month makes him feel weaker, more pathetic. Looks like it really had taken very little to break him.

"…Colonel?"

"Yes?"

"He really didn't hurt me. It… felt good."

Setting the laundry down, Mustang comes over to the bed. To Ed, he seems to tower, almost menacingly.

"That man held you captive against your will. That, in and of itself, means that he hurt you."

"But it wasn't. I…" Mustang obviously doesn't get it, not from the way his eyes are their usual cold, unreadable dark blue. "I… liked it. I _wanted_ it."

"You're not in your right mind. He drugged you and trapped you there; of course he'd get you to think that you enjoyed it."

"You don't understand!" Snapping upright from the pile of pillows Mustang had set at his head and back, Ed seizes the front of the colonel's shirt and shakes him (as much as his smaller body mass can have any effect on the stalwart soldier). The frenzy boils in his blood, sending his heart galloping, with his breath barely keeping up. "Al _left_ m-me! _Doyle_ gave me _help_, and w-where were you!? _Not there_! S-so don't tell me what I want, what I _n-need_! I _hate_ you! You d-don't give a f-fuck about me! You… don't…" But the rage can't sustain itself for long, and he crumples in the colonel's arms. Exhaustion comes to claim him once more, but, as it does and the world topples into black, he hears a baffling question, softly spoken.

"If that were true, would I have come after you?"


	9. AROUSAL

**AROUSAL**

It had been so long since he'd slept. He'd honestly forgotten what the sensation is like. And yet, he feels certain that this isn't it. It can't be, because… well… sleep requires a body.

Even without eyes to open, he registers the change from no sight to some — not that it does him much good. His surroundings are dimly lit, and when he tries to turn so as to see more, he finds himself unable to move. Disassembled? If Ed's behind this, he'd better have a good explanation for it.

"Well, this is a fine mess you've gotten us into."

"How the hell is this _my_ fault!? _Boucher's_ the one who let the brat slip out from under his nose!"

"It's your fault because you assured me that he was secure there."

"Well, how was _I_ supposed to know the Fullmetal whelp had friends who'd be able to sneak him out!?"

The first speaker, a woman, sighs with resignation. "At least we have a pretty good idea who those friends are. But I think we ought to make Boucher prove that he can hold onto the boy; otherwise, we'd be better off just keeping him _here_."

"_Here_ here? As in—"

"_No_, you would not be allowed to torture him. At least, not without reason."

"Killjoying hag."

"_Please_. There are plenty of other humans for you to play with without you damaging our sacrifice."

None of what he's heard seems good: it sounds as though he'd been taken hostage by someone while he'd been… well, not asleep, but unconscious, and Ed is their next target for capture, via someone called Boucher. He has to stop them, if he can… but that may be difficult, in his current condition. In any case, he should try to gather more information.

"Excuse me."

That seems to get their attention.

"Whoa, looks like Father was right!" The second speaker whistles in amusement, approaching with heavy footfalls. "He woke up after all."

"Of course Father was right, imbecile."

"Who're you callin' an imbecile?"

The snappy retort reminds him of how Ed reacts upon being called short — he'd chuckle to himself if the situation weren't so serious.

"Where am I? Who are you? What have you done to my body?"

"Such an inquisitive child," says the woman. "You, turn him around. We might as well let the boy see his surroundings, since he won't be leaving anytime soon."

Once repositioned by the other (who is surprisingly strong for someone of such a scrawny body as the one he sees from his new vantage point), it becomes clear that he's in a large chamber of sorts. It's still rather dark, but he can make out brick walls, stone floors, and pipes running along every surface.

"What is this place?"

"Suffice it to say that this is our home." The very beautiful woman rests her hands on her knees as she crouches in front of him to reach his unusually-low eye level. "Now, how are you feeling, Alphonse Elric?"

+.+.+

Since the only other option is the floor, Roy settles on the bed to try to get some rest. For a while, he actually manages it — Ed is quiet, only murmuring every now and then. The boy even rolls over to be closer to him, automail hand gripping his shirt, as if to make sure he won't go anywhere. But Roy knows that's only because Ed doesn't know who he's clinging to. After all, Ed had screamed that he hated him; there's no way he would seek comfort from him. And yet, Roy brings an arm around the boy — if nothing else, to keep him from falling off the bed. It had been starkly obvious when the kid had been naked, but even now, he seems frail, and not just physically. What he'd said about Alphonse leaving him… what could that mean? Had they gotten separated? Had they fought and taken space to clear their heads? It seems inconceivable for Alphonse to have just _deserted_ his brother. But, from the way Ed's voice had quivered upon admitting it, Roy determines that he shouldn't press for details just yet, or Ed might break completely.

That is… if he hasn't already.

Knox returns mid-morning, mission accomplished, and with takeout to boot. They eat in the bedroom to keep an eye on the somnolent Edward, but even the smell of food has no effect on the kid. Definitely a bad sign. (Knox, however, explains that a loss of appetite is common in opioid addiction.)

"My wife left plenty of recipes in the kitchen — if you can find them in that mess. We'll start him on something basic, like chicken broth and crackers, and work towards heartier foods."

"If we can get him to work towards anywhere," is Roy's pessimistic catch.

"That's your job. You brought the kid here, so you'd better make sure he doesn't do anything dangerous or stupid."

Roy grunts affirmation, his gaze turning to the boy in question. Edward seems to be stirring — at least, he's shaking. Shivering.

"Damn." Knox has noticed it, too. "He has a higher resistance than I thought. But I can't just give him a dose whenever he starts quaking, or we'll never get him off of it. Let's hold out as long as we can without putting his life in danger."

"You were awful quick to inject him before."

"That was before. Now the kid's on _my_ timetable. He plays by _my rules_ of when and how much he gets his fix."

"You're scary."

"Like you're one to talk." But Roy thinks he spots a twinkle of amusement behind Knox's glasses.

After swallowing down some sandwich, Roy turns the conversation. "I was sorry to hear about your family."

"Well… that's war. Either we die over there, or we die over here. Either way… civilians always get caught in the crossfire. We agreed that it was for the best, Celia and I. Best for Keith, too. She's written a few times since then, just to make sure I'm alive… She says, if I get better, that she would like to come back and see me." He scoffs into his cup. "As if people like you and I can get better."

"You make it sound so hopeless."

"Now _there's_ the idealist," the doctor chuckles. "By all means, Mustang, if you have some magic alchemy pill that can get the nightmares out of my head, share it."

"I don't, sorry." But then a thought occurs to him. "But I do have a friend who's a therapist. She's done good work."

"No one in the medical field takes that psychology stuff seriously."

"_I_ take it seriously, and so do many of the other people who've benefitted from her help. You really shouldn't be so quick to discount new discoveries. The world's a changing place."

"Too much so, if you ask me."

"Now you just sound old."

The moment almost turns humorous again, but a whimper from Ed makes that quite impossible. It's been years since Roy's heard Edward make such a sound: it's as if he's about to cry.

"Can't you do _something_ for him in the meantime?"

The doctor groans. "I… have a book on herbal remedies somewhere in here." Meaning that, like most of the items in Knox's house, it's buried under clutter. _Wonderful_. "Y'know, simple stuff, so we wouldn't have to worry about causing more problems."

"All right." Setting down his finished plate, Roy stands and approaches the bed. Ed has curled in on himself, but his automail fingers grip his upper left arm so tightly that he thinks he can see bruises forming. "Fullmetal?" He kneels beside the bed and feels the boy's forehead. High temperature and clammy skin must make for a miserable combination. "Hey. Can you hear me?"

Ed opens his eyes; that's confirmation enough, but—

"Y… you're so… m-mean."

"That's not my intention, Fullmetal. We're trying to help you."

Ed retorts with his middle finger, but the brazen gesture is soon upstaged by a fresh tremor, sending the boy back into his shell, from which only more pitiful sounds leak out.

"It isn't as though I don't feel sorry for him." Knox now stands on the other side of the bed. "But a doctor can't always cater to immediate wants."

"I understand that, but—"

"It's always worst at the beginning with these things. Just don't let anything he says in this state get to you. An addict may try _anything_ to get what he thinks he needs."

Roy's pretty certain that he hears a muttered curse tossed at Knox from the ball of Edward. Grabbing a blanket from the end of the bed, Roy lays it over the young blond and hastily tucks in the edges. The least they can do is try to keep him warm, right?

"Knox."

"What?"

"I want to find that book. I know I'm here to _watch_ him, but I can't just sit here and watch him _suffer_."

Another frustrated groan. "You really are a soft-hearted idealist. Fine, but only if you clean while you rummage." And he turns toward the living room. "I might as well get _something_ out of this."

"What are you gonna do?"

"Make some chamomile tea. It'd do all of us some good."

In spite of everything, Roy finds himself nurturing a small smile. Knox may try to act bitter and unconcerned, but it's still obvious that he cares. A good man…

Well, he may as well start his search in here. If nothing else, it's important for the patient's resting area to be clean.

+.+.+

Boucher sets a Cretan stout in front of Leopold and takes the adjacent seat. Before, the Aerugan had always been smiling, but now he glowers into his own glass of red wine.

"To think I'd see the day that one o'my girls would double-cross me."

"Must be some girl." A sip from his stout. "Do you know where she would hide Elric?"

"No, and I don't know wheh'e she'd hide heh'self, eitheh'. When I get my hands on that fiesty, freckled carrot-top—"

The description rings a bell for Leopold, to his own surprise. "How old is this girl?"

"Same age as the kid. Why?"

"It's just that I recall catching sight of a young red-headed girl at the Christmas Inn." Leopold rubs a finger on his temple as he searches for more detail. "She had a pretty blonde with her, and they seemed eager not to draw attention to themselves. I only noticed them because… well, I never miss an opportunity to notice beautiful young people."

Boucher's grin returns in full force. "So, Madam Christmas is shelteh'ing 'em? I should've figured they'd go hide under Scarlett's skirts." Downing his wine in one gulp, the Aerugan looks ready for action. "But they won't be able to hide for long now."

"You'd best get a move-on, then. My representees are also looking for the boy, so if they find him before you do…"

Boucher's sharp eyes turn on him. "Is that a threat?"

"It's a friendly warning," Leopold assures him. "Believe me, I want him back under your care as much as you do. The alternative is that beautiful child wasting away in some underground cell." He shudders and takes another drink of stout. "I'll be sure to tell you if I hear anything."

"Much obliged, Geneh'al. I don't usually take to military, but you'll be the exception."

Leopold smiles politely. "It's always a pleasure doing business with you."

+.+.+

He seriously doesn't get it, and the longer it goes on, the less he understands. Why are Mustang and this Doctor Knox person wasting so much time and effort on him? Don't they realize that it won't do any good, that he doesn't _want_ help?

The first few days after his "_rescue"_ are hell - there's no other way to put it. His highs are abruptly made the exception of his state of mind, rather than the rule. But that only makes him crave them all the more. Every time Knox approaches with that syringe bringing blessed relief, he goes crazy, leaving Mustang with no option but to pin him down so that the doctor can find a thick muscle into which to inject the morphine. And sometimes, as the warm buzz fills him, he imagines that it isn't Mustang pressing against him, but Doyle. He isn't even sure why he does it. Perhaps he's just desperate to return to The Butcher. Perhaps he's just desperate to experience that intense desire which he had felt from his keeper, whether in a single hand's caress or in the entire body's passion. Perhaps… he's just desperate in general. But, regardless of his lack of cooperation, the two men drag Edward through each day.

By the end of the week, they're at least able to force chamomile tea, chicken broth, and saltine crackers into him, and Ed himself has regained some clarity of thought in the lapses between his highs. But a working, rational mind is hardly what he wants, which only sets the gears of his head working toward the easiest means of gaining distraction. In his weakened state, he has no chance in wheedling drugs out of Knox, so that's out. And there's no way either of the adults would give him alcohol. That leaves _one_ aspect of Ed's wild life under Doyle's care prominently in the young blond's mind. Perhaps that's why, as he reclines against his small mountain of pillows and, through the faint haze of his diminished high, watches Mustang sort through books, he says something which his old self would have found abhorrently strange.

"Colonel… you're… kinda sexy."

The book Mustang had been holding abruptly drops to the floor with a thud. Ed can only describe his expression as _appalled_, which is surprising, in and of itself, because he would have thought the colonel would have soaked up compliments like a dry sponge. But, it's probably because Mustang is smart, and he's already trying to jump down the path of Ed's thoughts and reasonings, that he is so disturbed by having heard the boy say such a thing.

The soldier forces out a laugh and tries to regain his composure. "Well, um, thank you, Fullmetal, but I don't know what you mean."

That's the problem; Ed doesn't really know either, but the words slide over his loosened tongue anyway. "I mean… I'd kinda… like to kiss you."

Shoulders sagging with worry, Mustang stands and approaches the bed cautiously. He sits on the edge and makes direct eye-contact, his expression firm, but patient.

"You don't mean that."

"Why not? You're… very kissable."

"You're not thinking straight."

"You… could lean down here… and find out."

"Sorry, I have a strict policy against kissing children." Again he chuckles, in spite of his otherwise solemn tone. "Can you believe how quickly the rumors would spread? I'd be sacked within hours."

"Fuck the rumors… and fuck… the people who'd spread 'em." He shivers. "I'm… so cold."

"I can get you another blanket if—"

"No, I'm—" And Ed clutches at his chest. "—cold _in here_. And I thought… if you kissed me… it'd warm up. Fire… and all."

Mustang sighs, but all trace of sternness has evaporated from his face. "No can do, Fullmetal, sorry."

"But," he is quick to add, picking the book he'd been perusing up from the floor, "here's something I can do for you. Scoot over."

Tentatively, Edward does so, and Mustang climbs onto the bed to sit beside him, even wrap an arm around him. Without even thinking, Ed rests his head against the colonel's breast and feels… inexplicably and irrefutably _better_.

"I guess this means you don't hate me after all, huh…"

Guilty as charged, but he has no intention of _admitting_ to that.

"You know that book I was looking for?"

Ed nods, vaguely recalling the colonel's search through Knox's books.

"Well, this is it. It's full of herbal remedies. Maybe there's something in here that can help you feel better without powerful drugs."

Herbs… They make Ed think of his childhood friend, Pitt Renbak, who'd left Resembool to become a doctor's assistant. Despite being close friends, they'd always competed against each other, each always trying to pull ahead of the other. And look at him now… He isn't sure if Pitt would laugh at him or punch him, were he here now, but — in any case — Ed's glad that he isn't. A childhood friend would only make him think of Al.

"Ah, here's something: Valerian. It says here that it can improve sleep — I know you've been tossing and turning every night. Maybe we can try that."

It's like Mustang is reading a children's book to him. Ed has never heard his voice sound so kind, so… endearing. But that just makes everything worse, because, if he _really_ cared, he'd do what Ed wanted him to and take him back to Doyle. He's just keeping him here out of some selfish need to feel like a savior. But what Mustang, what Knox, what all of them don't understand is that they can't save someone who doesn't want their charity. So, really… they'd all be better off abandoning him, leaving him on Doyle's doorstep and forgetting all about him.

And if the colonel won't do that much, he could at least fill this icy void in Ed's chest by _comforting_ him. _Maybe_, Ed thinks, _maybe he secretly wants to, but he's holding back because of my age_. And once he phrases that idea in his head, it hooks onto the emptiness inside him like a thin and ragged lifeline.

+.+.+

Just as all the nights before, Edward clearly has trouble sleeping. Roy does his best to lie still and quiet so as not to add any extra agitation, but that seems to provide little help. And, unfortunately, tonight Roy himself finds rest eluding him as well. Maybe it's what Ed had said earlier, trying to goad him into… well, he'd rather not think about it, but trying _not_ to think about it only puts it more and more on his mind. He's wanted to believe that things can go back to the way they were before, that the boy is repairable, but… perhaps there are things which will never be the same about him. Things irreversibly lost… all because of Roy's lack of supervision.

Speaking of not paying enough attention, Ed seems to be curled in on himself, breathing erratically and shuddering. That can't be good; maybe he needs to ask Knox to give the kid a small dose, if only to help him sleep. But, when he sits up to do just that, Ed stiffens, as if he had thought Roy asleep after all. That makes him suspicious that something else is going on. Sure enough, if Edward's hands are tucked where Roy thinks they are…

"Are you all right?" he tentatively asks.

At first, Ed makes no reply. Then he mutters something about the bathroom, stumbles out of bed, and disappears behind the closed door.

_Well_, Roy reckons, _he is a teenager._ He waits until he hears the sound of the kid washing his hands before knocking on the bathroom door.

"Everything okay in there?"

"Y-yeah… m'fine…" When he emerges, Edward appears subdued, _sheepish_ even. And, without a word of warning, he shuffles forward and wraps himself around Roy, face to his chest and arms around his waist. He tries to take a step back from shock, but Edward's sudden hold makes that difficult. Just what is all this about? Don't tell him that the kid seriously… _likes_ him? That is, he wouldn't mind it if Ed were nicer to him, but this complete 180 from how they would interact before is more than a little disturbing. Still… the act itself is innocent enough, right? Edward is lonely, recovering from emotional and physical abuses. In that light, a hug is long overdue. Unsure what else to do, Roy pats the boy's head, untangling some of the golden strands as he runs his fingers over Ed's crown.

"Are you… really okay, Fullmetal?"

Ed shakes his head and clings to him still tighter.

"Talk to me."

Nothing at first, but then: "…I'm… a terrible person."

Where had _that_ come from? "Well, I wouldn't call you a saint, but I think that's a bit harsh."

"No, really. I'm… a terrible, horrible… failure."

"What makes you say that?" Then it hits him. "Is this… about Al? About what happened with you two?"

The boy stiffens, then begins to tremble. Remembering that he's only fourteen pricks Roy somewhere deep in his gut, and, extricating himself from Edward's grasp, he kneels and gently holds the young blond by his shoulders.

"What happened? If you don't tell me, I can't help you."

For the second time since Roy had known him, Edward is on the verge of tears (the first time having been during their encounter in Resembool: the meeting that had set Ed on this path in the first place). For what feels like a long time, the boy says nothing, his lip quivering. Hoping to provide a sliver of comfort, Roy brushes some of the long blond bangs away from his face. He can wait however long it takes.

"He… l-left me…"

That was what he had said before, too. "How did you get separated?"

Ed shakes his head, sniffling. "I just… I w-woke up one morning… and he w-wasn't there." Roy's about to ask another prompting question, but Ed continues. "I tried… t-to call to him. I thought he was p-playing around… at first. But n-no matter… how many times I b-begged, he wouldn't… he wouldn't answer m-me. Th… there just wasn't anybody there. He w-was _gone_."

An awful possibility solidifies in the air around him, a possibility which would explain everything. Doing his best to meet the boy's swimming gaze, Roy phrases the question as gently, yet plainly, as he can. "Edward… is Alphonse dead?"

He watches the truth flicker across those golden eyes, but it disappears quickly, replaced by a distant look. "He… he l-left me behind. I k-kept failing him, so he… he went away."

Yes. Everything makes sense now. And yet the satisfaction in having located the source of Edward's downward spiral is easily swallowed by sorrow. He hadn't known Alphonse as well, but that makes his death no less grievous. That kind, patient boy had been all that had held his older brother together, and, without him, it's no surprise at all that Edward has completely shattered, to the point where he can't even admit to the full extent of his loss. Pity swells in Roy's heart, and he moves without thinking. In one fluid motion, he scoops Edward into his arms and hugs him. Like a small child would, Ed quickly wraps his mismatched legs around the soldier so as not to slip. And, standing there with the fragile boy, Roy whispers, "Would it help you sleep if I held you?"

Choking back the beginnings of a sob, Edward nods.


	10. COLLUSION

**COLLUSION**

She's fidgety. It certainly hasn't been easy to spend the past week cooped up in a single building, especially when said building has customers that wander in and out at virtually every hour of the night. Sure, the place is called an inn, but anyone in this business knows that's just euphemism.

Marj, as may be expected, handles the situation more maturely. And maybe that calmness is contagious, because, when she wraps her arms around Bri and speaks softly to her, some of her agitation subsides. Even so, she can't stay cooped up in here without any news for much longer.

The problem is, of course, the place she wants to go first is wherever Lieutenant Hawkeye and Lieutenant Colonel Hughes had taken Ed. Well… actually, she'd have to push that to the second place. First of all, she needs to talk to her sister. Things have been tense between them for so long over old hurts, and letting Fiona close again only opens up opportunity for a repeat offense. But… Colonel Mustang had seemed to believe in her, in _them_, and that's something. At the very least, Bri owes Fi a real explanation for why she knows Doyle Boucher. But, in the meantime, here she sits, unable to do anything more than mull over what the hell she's even supposed to say. Any scenario she imagines ends up with her sensitive older sister in tears, and that just sucks. Sure, it's an awful situation, but it… _she_ isn't worth crying over. Only Ed understands things like that — it's why they'd hit off well in the first place. And yet… not well enough for him to come to her when he'd been on the brink. That hurts a bit, but, then again, were she in his shoes, she wouldn't want to bother anyone with despair that deep either. She can't blame him for doing exactly what she might do, were she to lose this game of lies and trickery to Boucher. Good thing that losing isn't something she plans on doing.

"Your tea will get cold, darling."

Jostled from her contemplation, Bri mumbles agreement and turns back to her mug (and Marj, seated across the small round table from her). Marjorie is, simply put, gorgeous. Her pale blond hair seems always perfectly arranged into thick ringlets, and her large blue eyes, so full of kindness and composure, reflect the light like great sapphires. Her complexion must be the envy of every girl in Central — it's sometimes hard to believe that her skin isn't carved of marble, for how smooth and flawless it is (and Bri would know better than anyone). Indeed, sometimes, standing next to her, Bri catches herself feeling like an ugly duckling, but Marj always seems to catch on to that and proceeds to kiss her all over her freckled face. Unlike most Amestrian beauties, however, Marjorie's grandeur is not only skin-deep. She's so _good_ that she's almost _too_ _good_ — only a select few know that even Marj has her moments of disdain and sarcasm, but, unlike Bri, even her insults are dealt with a smile and a gracious air. It's nauseating to think about, but it's probably that snake Boucher who had taught Marjorie how to conduct herself so, as he also tends to sneer from behind a silver tongue.

"I'm still sorry you got dragged into this," says Bri, rimming the mouth of her mug with a lazy finger.

"I'm not," Marj counters. "_I_ dragged _you_ into this first, and, if you think about it, we were bound to clash with him, sooner or later. I just hope he doesn't hurt you over this. At least with me, he tends to hold back."

"If what he does with you is holding back, then I think you need to redefine what you consider that to be."

Marj smiles apologetically. "I suppose I'm hardly an impartial judge. Doyle is… a complicated man."

"Don't waste your breath defending him. Boucher is the scum of the earth, and that's that."

"No person is all good or all bad, Bri."

"_You're_ all good."

Marj chuckles. "You would say that, darling." But then her expression sombers. "Still, when he comes after us, let me do the talking."

"You sound so sure that he will."

"He isn't the sort of person who would abandon a project into which he's poured so much time and effort."

"We aren't a project," Bri mutters bitterly. "We're people. And a piece of shit that can think of people as projects can just go die in a ditch, for all I care."

Maybe she should have stayed quiet, because the bell at the front door tinkles, and in walks the devil himself, as if Bri's badmouthing had summoned him. Scarlett's at the counter, and she is first to address him.

"Been a while, Boucher."

He smiles at her. "Looks like you're doin' well for yourself." After a downward glance, he adds. "You can let go o'that pistol I know you just grabbed. Madam Christmas and I have mutual friends, so I won't cause any trouble in heh' place of business, I swear."

Cue Bri with a venomous, "If that's the case, then you can just _leave_."

Marj tries to pull her back into her seat, but the ginger has already stood, placing herself in front as a shield. Boucher, however, just laughs.

"You look ready for a fight, Spitfire, but I meant what I said. I may be angry at ya for stealin' my meh'chandise, but I _can_ be a gentleman."

"Ed isn't your merchandise, you sick fuck!"

"Bri—"

Boucher looks back to Scarlett over his shoulder. "You'll witness that I didn't start this, right?"

"You don't get any promises from me, Boucher."

"Oh, boy. All you ladies are gangin' up on me. Whateveh' will I do?" With a sigh, he leans to one side to make eye contact past Bri. "Marj, baby, can ya do me a solid and control your girlfriend?"

This time, Marj successfully forces Bri to sit — she even keeps a firm grip on the other's shoulders to keep her stationary.

"What're you d—!?"

"I told you to let me do the talking." And Marjorie's tone is sterner, _much sterner_, than usual, enough to cow Bri. The blonde then looks up at the tall Aerugan. "Doyle, you really mustn't say things to rile her up. You know Bri isn't nearly as patient as I am."

"Sorry, baby. It's just so fun to watch her boil over." With that, Boucher pulls up a chair to the table, keeping his eyes on Marjorie. And she keeps hers on him. Bri can't tell whether they are gauging each other or silently communicating, but — in either case, it's infuriating! Marj shouldn't give this monster the time of day, and yet here she is, gazing so intently at him. Is this that concept Fiona had tried to describe to Bri once, where a captive can develop sympathy for the captor? That seems to be the only valid explanation she can think of as to why Marj would even _try_ to defend Boucher.

"Why did you come here, Doyle?"

"Well, since I knew Spitfire isn't one to clear the air first, I decided to take initiative." And then he looks directly at Bri. "You probably think you were helpin' your friend by takin' him away from me. I guess it ain't your fault that you have such a narrow view of helpin'."

"The fuck did you say?"

"Briana, stop that."

"No, no, it's okay, baby. I like it when Bri speaks heh' mind. Honesty is an admirable trait."

"As if _you'd_ know."

For an instant, Boucher smile softens — a truly disturbing sight. "I know a lot more than ya think. As I said, your view is _narrow_. All I can say is that _Ed_ came to _me_."

"You can say whatever you want — doesn't mean I'll believe one word of it."

Marj pinches her shoulder. "You aren't making a civil conversation any easier." Then she bats the ball back to Boucher. "You still haven't answered my question very well."

"I'm gettin' to that." Interlocking long fingers, Boucher hunches a little so as to get closer to the girls' eye-level. "You see, in my own way, I was tryin' to help that poor kid, too. When he first came to my bar, I half expected him to wandeh' out into an alley and slit his wrist. It wouldn't do to waste such beauty, so, naturally, I did eveh'ythin' in my poweh' to make life bearable for him."

"Oh, _sure_, just in ways that benefitted _you_." She feels utterly disgusted. Is Boucher seriously trying to justify his deplorable actions?

"I neveh' claimed to run a _charity_, Spitfire. Ed's an alchemist; he understands the necessity of a fair transaction. …So does Marj, for that matteh'. Why else do you think she was content with the way things weh'e before you started meddlin'?"

"_You're_ the one who hand-picked _me_ to become her friend, bastard, so don't blame me that your scheme has come back to bite you in the ass."

Boucher shrugs. "Touché. But at least my instincts weh'e spot-on that you two would—" And he brings his pointer fingers together in a whimsical illustration. "So, that's somethin'."

"You obviously missed your calling as a matchmater," Bri all but spits. "Get to the point, Boucher."

But the Aerugan addresses Marj instead. "How _do_ ya put up with all this inteh'ruption, baby?"

Why the hell does Marj _genuinely smile_ at that question!? "Very patiently. Bri only interrupts when she's mad at you."

"Guess she's mad at me all the time, then, huh?"

"You really shouldn't be surprised by that, Doyle. It's your own fault."

"Oh, well." He runs a hand through his slickened hair. "_Anyway_, the point is: I'm makin' some effort to undeh'stand you, so be a darlin' and afford me the same courtesy?"

Bri feigns surprise. "I didn't know '_courtesy'_ was in your vocabulary."

Normally, her barrage of insults would have an effect — Boucher would snap at some point and turn nasty — but it would seem that his composure is unbreakable today for some odd reason.

"Is that all you came to say?" asks Marj, raising a thin eyebrow.

"Not quite. Just figuh'ed you'd be more open to hear me out if I laid out my perspective for ya." Straightening and clearing his throat, he continues. "I've deteh'mined that you've done enough."

The girls share a confused glance. "Done enough… what?" Marj presses at length.

"You're cut loose. 'Course, we can still be _friends_, but your fatheh's debt is off the table, baby. Look, I even brought these." And, producing their signed contracts from his pocket, he rips them up without a shred of hesitation.

Bri's jaw just about hits the floor. Did she fall asleep somewhere into this conversation and start daydreaming!? It just doesn't seem possible that, out of the blue, let alone after Bri's deception, Boucher would just… _forgive_ them! Something _has_ to be off here.

"What's the angle?" she therefore prompts.

"No angle, Briana. I'm dead serious. All I ask ya to consideh' is to tell me wheh'e Edward is. If I find him, he'll more than coveh' losin' ya, and gladly, too. And, if I don't, well… theh'e're always other ventures."

No way. It's _too good_ to be true. Plus, "I don't know where Ed is, and, if I did, I wouldn't tell you."

"Shame. I have a feelin' he'd want ya to." He pushes out from the table and stands. "Just think about it. That poor boy has nothin' to live for, and if you don't let me take care of him, then I guarantee ya he's gonna die, and by his own hand, too. So, for his sake, if nothin' else, think about it."

With a little bow to them and to Scarlett, he turns to the door, but Marjorie catches him. She, in fact, throws her arms around his neck (quite a feat, with height difference) and kisses his cheek, tears flowing down her rosy cheeks.

"Thank you! Thank you so much, Doyle, I—"

"Shh, don't mention it, baby. You earned it." After setting her down, he catches the way Bri is glaring at him still and laughs. "I get it, Spitfire. It's easieh' for ya to think o'me as a villain with no heart, but I ain't without a brand o'kindness. Maybe _you_ should show Edward a kindness the same way. No one else can help that kid like I can."

_You've got __**that**_ _much right, at least_. But her shock is enough that she can't drag that last spiteful thought out into spoken words. And that bewilderment persists long after Boucher departs, leaving only his suspicious generosity behind.

+.+.+

Things are definitely looking up. As painful as it had no doubt been for Edward to expose the full extent of his situation to Roy, the nights following have been significantly more peaceful for the battered boy. Unfortunately, the same cannot be said for Roy himself, for, with Ed's finally reaching a deep sleep emerges muttering from his dreams. And not only does Roy suddenly feel as if he's intruding on the boy's subconscious, but also he finds the contents of said subconscious more than a little disturbing. If only he could reach into Edward's head and scoop out every trace of that bastard, Boucher, and the imprint he had left upon the young blond. Regardless of what he'd rationalized before about Ed being a teenager, surely it can't be normal to have _those_ kinds of dreams so frequently. And, as if having to listen to that sort of moaning and mumbling weren't bad enough, those words seem to reach into his skull even after he manages to fall asleep, affecting _his_ subconscious. But, where Edward might be having "pleasant" dreams, Roy only gets nightmares. It's almost like their dreams establish a sensory connection, forcing Roy to bear witness as Boucher (or, at least, what Roy imagines Boucher to look like, based on Bri's description of the man) has his way with an Edward all-too-eager. It's disgusting. All he wants is to look away, but it's like he's paralyzed. He can't turn his head, can't even close his eyes. Relief only comes when he can pull himself back to consciousness, sweating and panting.

Edward, to the credit of his improving condition, notices within three days that his own restfulness isn't mutual with Roy, but, so as to avoid any more awkward conversations about his being kissable, Roy chalks up this trouble to Ed's sleep-talking.

"I know you can't control it; it's not your fault," he tries to excuse, but Edward has already clamped mismatched hands over his own mouth, red faced.

"I… I'm sorry… I guess I never tried to stop it before… Al… he liked to listen to me…" And he sniffles to hold his emotions in check. "He said it made the lonely nights easier, so…"

Reaching over, Roy rubs the top of the boy's head. "Don't worry about it. I'm not asking you to try to suppress it — I certainly have no intention of muzzling you so I can sleep in peace. I'll just use some earplugs or—"

"Or there are the sleep aids you were reading to me about." And Ed's eyes light up like Roy hasn't seen in quite some time. "I've been looking at that book, and I'd really like to try making some! It… it would give me something to do, y'know? And if I could help you sleep, it'd be even better! I… I don't want to be even more of a burden to you."

As if he can say, "_no,"_ to that. So, between Knox's stores of dried herbs and some trips Roy makes to local markets, Edward gets his ingredients and starts grinding. As the colonel watches, he doesn't see the boy use one bit of alchemy to mix together the powders and distilled essences. Is it soothing for him to use only his hands to work? Or would the use of alchemy only remind him painfully of Alphonse and the loss he no doubt feels responsible for? In any case, Roy doesn't point this nuance out. He's quite content to watch Ed work, pausing to read or talk with Hughes (when he visits to check in). Knox's supervision seems a little stricter, but most of his time is spent at the coroner's office. Nevertheless, Edward Elric isn't a prodigy for nothing. On the fourth night after Edward had cried (the eleventh after his rescue from Boucher), he presents the fruits of his labor to Roy. Sure enough, whatever's in there puts him to sleep _very_ quickly, but the recurring nightmare comes anyway. Maybe, then, it's his own worried imagination now producing such horrific visions. And, having witnessed the same scene four nights in a row, he can now pick out a frightening pattern. Every time, the act itself gets closer to him, sight and sound more distinct. If this keeps up, they'll virtually be on top of him before long.

But he doesn't dare tell any of this to Edward, for obvious reasons. The poor kid ought to get the chance to feel like he's done something good, something helpful, so Roy continues to take the homemade sleep aid without question, if only to put something of a smile on the boy's face.

Almost two weeks into Roy's caretaking of Edward, it's not Hughes who visits, but Hawkeye, and Fiona with her. Knox had given Hughes a key to the house for the duration of this venture, so, using that, the lieutenant and the psychologist have no trouble at all getting inside. A good thing, too, because, when they arrive, Roy is still in bed, with a dozing Edward resting blond head against him.

"Sorry I can't get up to give a better greeting," he thus excuses.

Hawkeye smiles knowingly. "I take this to mean that you understand a little better how Edward feels."

He nods, then looks to Fiona. "How are you holding up?"

Indeed, she looks more shaken that usual, but her smile doesn't falter. "I'm all right, Roy. Briana and her friend visited today, and we… talked. They'll be coming home with me after I'm done here."

"Is that really wise? What about Boucher?"

"Apparently, Boucher visited the Christmas Inn the other day and annulled their contracts with him," Hawkeye informs. At Roy's baffled expression, she adds, "I know — I'm just as surprised as you."

"He could be trying to trick us into letting our guard down," the colonel reasons. "But, in any case, it's a relief to know those two won't have to deal with that kind of monster anymore."

Fiona nods. "That the case, I was hoping I could talk to Edward. See… where things are."

"I don't know how much he'll give you." With a sigh, Roy shuffles into a more upright position, coaxing the sleeping Ed with him. "Worth a shot, though." Gently, Roy pats the boy's cheek. "Hey, Fullmetal. Time to wake up. Fiona's here."

At first, Ed just groans and presses all the more against Roy, but enough disturbance forces him to open his eyes. The moment that he finally registers the women's presence is easy to detect, because he sits bolt-upright and scoots to the other side of the bed post haste, his face red. It's as if he's expecting them all to laugh at him. Oh, dear — Edward has still been moody when he first wakes up, before he gets his first injection from Knox, but this abrupt aversion seems a bit much — hopefully this isn't a step backwards. Or, maybe the kid's just embarrassed. Fiona seems to think the latter, because her smile takes on a playful air for a moment before she circles to Ed's side of the bed.

"How are you, Edward?"

"…Fine."

Well, he'd responded to her; that's something. Before their conversation can really progress anywhere, though, Hawkeye grabs Roy's attention.

"Are _you_ all right, sir? You look a little pale."

He debates for a moment before extricating himself from the covers and standing. If he's going to tell _anyone_, it may as well be her.

"Let's step out; wouldn't want to get in the way of Fiona's session."

"Right."

Once in the hallway, safely out of Edward's hearing, Roy explains the predicament of his nighttime horrors. Not surprisingly, Hawkeye looks a little pale, too, after listening to him.

"Should I stay with him instead? If being away from him would help you, then—"

"No, it's all right. I'd probably just worry _more_ if I wasn't watching him. This… hiding like this can't last forever. The truth will out, and Boucher and his allies will be brought to justice." Mustering a smile of strength, he concludes, "Once that's done, I'll truly be able to sleep in peace."

She matches his expression, albeit with a sprinkle of incredulity (probably due to his bullheaded answer). "Of course, sir."

+.+.+

Well, nothing yet, but it's only a matter of time. He knows that Marjorie, at least, will feel indebted enough by his generous gesture to pass along any information she can gather about Edward Elric. Even if he is Bri's friend, Marj will understand the state of emptiness where only distraction and pleasure, even coercion, can drag one foot in front of the other. She'll know that there's no saving poor little Edward from that frame of mind, that the only thing that can be done for him is what _he_ can offer.

He'll be doubly lucky if Briana comes to the same conclusion, in spite of what will no doubt be stubborn resistance to the idea. Such a spirited girl… In any case, between the two of them and his own efforts, Edward won't be able to hide much longer.

And it's a good thing, too, because Raven keeps coming around just to remind him that he's racing against the clock, against another team, in fact. Imbeciles — they should just let him take his time with the boy. Rushing things leads to impulsive decisions, impulsive decisions lead to oversight, and oversight leads to disaster. It's simply not strategic thinking. Oh, well… opponents or allies, _he_ will prevail. He's very good at judging the strength of others — it's saved him from many an unwelcome scrap — and this is no exception. Intuition tells him that his chances of recovering Ed before these others (others whose identities he grows increasingly suspicious of) are still good. It's too early in the game to give up now — of that, he is certain.

Just a little longer, and his opening for checkmate will appear.


End file.
